


turning

by purple01_prose



Category: Epic (2013)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Books, Depression, Drama & Romance, Established Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Humor, Law Enforcement, Literary References & Allusions, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Pregnancy, Psychological Trauma, Survivor Guilt, Violence, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:43:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 102,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple01_prose/pseuds/purple01_prose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of her mother, MK Kennedy goes to live with her dad in a small town in Connecticut. Despite the small-town-ness, they have a bit of a crime problem, and under duress (and potentially the charms of one particular detective-in-training), MK finds that she gets involved more than she'd like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is devoted to seriously-smiling-inside, nodtheepic, the-leafwoman, and justnotcutoutforthis. All are amazing RPers on Tumblr, and all of them checked scenes for me for character reasons.
> 
> General trigger warning for violence, surviving violence, survivor's guilt, depression, PTSD, and PTSD-related panic issues. 
> 
> Also, this is ongoing. This is one of the first fics that I've posted in a long time that is an ongoing (I usually wait until it's done). The chapters will probably be released on a half-week to weekly basis, depending on how quickly I write and my other current projects. 
> 
> Also, this fic does have a playlist, so the songs for Chapter 1 are: Alice's Theme (Danny Elfman), The Lightning Strike (What if this storm ends) (Snow Patrol), and Shadowland (The Lion King OST).
> 
> Also, there will be gratuitous quoting of John Donne, because I love him and he wrote something that expands on Leafmen philosophy rather beautifully.

_“The mother's battle for her child with sickness, with poverty, with war, with all the forces of exploitation and callousness that cheapen human life needs to become a common human battle, waged in love and in the passion for survival.”_

_Adrienne Rich_

* * *

 

**CHAPTER ONE**

**THEN**

Her room is down the hall from her mother’s. Her mom told her once, “That way, I can protect you.”

 

It seems like a cruel joke now.

 

So many people had said she and her mom could’ve been doubles except for the red hair. She hates them.

 

It had been just her and her mom against the world. The guys who tried to proposition her mom, both the smooth and the definitely not, who realized that her mom was a package deal with a sly, sardonic teenage girl, and quickly left when they couldn’t match their combined wit.

 

“Mary Katherine Kennedy?” the FBI agent wants to know her name, her age, her address, and who the current president is.

 

None of that matters while the crime scene techs are taking pictures upstairs.

 

“Is there someone we can call?”

 

No, of course there isn’t.

 

There are murmurs from the neighbor, there’s a father in Connecticut, a town with a strange name (fuck that bitch, seriously), and the FBI agent is sitting with her (and they’re both being very quiet, and this is the first person she’s talked to since she tried to save her mom  _if only she’d been faster_ ), and the FBI agent is quietly relentless, wants to make sure she’s okay, physically and—

 

“Of course I’m not fucking okay, my mom is-is...”

 

_Dead._

**NOW**

 

“Welcome home, sweetie,” her dad says, opening the door of his battered Honda and grabbing her bag. She steps out of the car, staring up at his house.

 

Well. House is a generous term.

 

It needs paint and a new roof, and the windows are dirty. She follows her dad up the cracked steps and through the door, and the inside doesn’t look much better. The windows are large, but he’s got so much stuff crammed into each room that it makes the place look cramped.

 

She swallows the lump in her throat. She wants to be back _home_ , in the two-story house that wasn’t as big as this (did it need to be, with just the two of them?) but it was always so clean and airy that it looked large and comfortable.

 

The house has been sold, and all of the money dropped straight into her trust fund. She can access it in three months when she turns eighteen, but she’s planning on using it for college. Or something. She’s already contacted NYU to put off starting until January, though the lady working at Admissions had told her to take all the time she needs.

 

It had been Mom’s dream that she go to NYU. She’s not sure if that’s _her_ dream anymore.

 

Her father closes the door, and calls, “Hey Ozzie!”

 

“Ozzie? He’s still alive?”

 

“Yeah. While I was gone, one of the boys from the precinct came and fed him every day. I think his name was Ned, or something.” The pug comes running out, and MK stops to see that he’s missing a leg and blind in one eye. “Ozzie likes to run out into the forest,” her dad says hastily, correctly judging what she’s thinking. “Sometimes he gets into trouble.”

 

MK forces herself to relax. “Ah. Um, okay.”

 

“Now, we can unpack, or I can show you around Moonhaven.” Her dad looks anxious, and she can tell he wants to get back to the research he put on hold while he came to Westchester to take care of her. There hadn’t been much ‘taking care of,’ more of ‘I’m here if you need me (but please don’t need me).’

 

Maybe she’s being too harsh. He _did_ sit with her at the arraignment.

 

“Nah, I can go exploring on my own,” she says awkwardly, shoving her hands in her pockets. “Really.”

 

“You shouldn’t be alone right now,” her dad looks sad, and she remembers that just like her mom never remarried, neither did her dad.

 

“I’ll be okay,” she says automatically. “Go on. I’ll be fine.”

 

“Okay then,” and then her dad surprises her by leaning over her and kissing her forehead. “You know the number of the house, right?”

 

She waves her iPhone at him. “Yeah, I got it. Is there a time I should be back by?”

 

“Stay out as long as you like, but come home before dark,” her dad warns. “There’s a lot of gang violence.”

 

A lot of gang violence in a small town? She stifles a snort, but nods, checking to make sure she has her wallet and pepper spray. She kisses her dad on the cheek and walks out the door.

 

Despite it being mid-June, the air is slightly chilly, and she shivers, thinking tomorrow she’ll know to wear her hoodie. Her boots creak on the dirt as it turns into sidewalk, and she grumbles to herself, “Could Dad live _any_ further out of town?”

 

The town is bustling, especially in front of Town Hall, but they all fall silent as she passes, and she hears snatches of conversation “—that’s Radcliffe’s little girl, you know she lost her mother—” “terrible, what happened—” “shame her father’s such an airhead—” When she stops to glare at the last speaker, everyone unfreezes and goes back to their day-to-day with enforced cheeriness.

 

She can’t stand this. She ducks into a bookshop, heading for the dustiest shelves she can find so she can stop and breathe. She can’t do this. She can’t force a smile to these people. She owes nothing to them, they should keep their mouths _shut_ , her dad may be a blithering idiot but he’s _her_ blithering idiot—

 

“Well, hey there,” a booming voice says. “Can I help you find something?”

 

She looks up to see a tall, broad older man, wearing khaki pants and Joseph’s Technicolor Dreamcoat.

 

“See, I ask because we don’t usually get people in the History section,” he says gently.

 

“No, I’m fine,” she blinks rapidly, willing her face to look normal. “It’s just, um, louder out there than I’m used to.”

 

“Oh yeah, Mayor Sylva likes to hear her constituents, and on one day every two weeks, she opens the doors of Town Hall so she can meet with them personally.” The man chuckles, “It drives Chief Vigile up the wall, because there are some security risks. I’m Nim, by the way. I run the bookshop.”

 

“MK,” she answers, feeling herself calm down. “Why doesn’t anyone go to the History section?”

 

“In this town, you’re more likely to see people buying fiction or gardening aides. The kids like the young fiction, and the older people buy biographies, but the history and education sections get less attention. Though Mayor Sylva keeps the spirituality/mystic section going all by herself—she’s Pagan, so we stock more of those than would most independent bookstores in small towns.”

 

“Pagan?” Her mom’s best friend is Pagan. She’d promised to send good energy MK’s way. Not that it’s made much of a difference.

 

“Yeah, but Mayor Sylva and I don’t exactly get a chance to talk in detail. Chief Vigile is, well, _emphatic_ about his wife’s safety, and she’s been dealing with a lot lately.”

 

“Like what?”

 

Nim scratches his head, looking her over, and MK suddenly realizes that though he act boisterous, he’s much craftier than he seems. “You know, typical stuff with a small town. Gang violence is a problem.”

 

“How much gang violence can a small town have?” she snorts.

 

“Too much,” Nim says flatly. “So, what were you looking for?”

 

“Wasn’t really looking for anything, just needed a break.” She waits for him to say something like, “Of course you did, I’m so sorry for your loss” or “With a father like that, no wonder” but he doesn’t say any of that.

 

Instead, he scratches his head, and says, “So do you have any experience with alphabetizing books and cleaning?”

 

She blinks. It sounds like he’s about to offer her a job. “I was a teacher’s assistant for my high school librarian,” she says cautiously.

 

“Well, it just so happens that I need someone to cover the shop in the afternoons. See, I also run the town history museum, but the girl I’ve got for covering it can only cover it in the mornings. Pay would be around ten dollars an hour, and you’d be working right around five days a week...unless you wanted to work weekends, too. Weekends are a little more flexible, since the museum’s only open in the morning on Saturdays, and closed on Sundays.”

 

“I’m only here until January,” she tells him. “That’s when I’m going to the city for school.”

 

“That’s okay,” Nim waves a hand. “I should have another person to help cover by then anyway. It’d be easy,” he tells her, “we get fairly steady business but we’re never rushing. Besides, with your experience, you can probably give recommendations just as well as I can.”

 

It sounds...boring, but right now, she could use a little boring. And it’d get her out of the house, and the money should be good. Even if there’s not much to spend it on in this place.

 

Well. That’s what Amazon is for.

 

“Okay,” she tells him.

 

Nim grins. “Right! Can you be here tomorrow by 12:30? We close at 7, and I’ll make sure you get lunch breaks and everything, but don’t worry about dressing up.” He plucks at his coat and t-shirt underneath it. “I don’t.”

 

She nods. “Thanks. I’m MK, by the way.” She figures he already knows who she is, but introducing herself is polite.

 

“Nice to meet you, MK,” Nim beams, sticking out a hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Yeah, tomorrow,” she echoes. She doesn’t feel up to smiling, but she hopes the twinkle in her eyes makes up for it.

 

As she exits, she’s too busy waving goodbye over her shoulder to sense the guy coming, and it’s not until she feels piercing cold spread over her shirtfront that she looks up.

 

Yes, that really is a frappuccino all over her chest.

 

And of course, since she’s been in dance since she was little, she has very little, um, _there_ , so she usually just throws on a tank-top and a t-shirt over it, but she’s cold, and she’s really wishing she wore a bra today.

 

“Whoa,” the guy says, “um, can I help?” He’s about six inches taller than her, and she’s too busy glaring at him to notice his uniform. He looks her over, and smiles slightly. “Is it cold outside or are you just happy to see me?”

 

“Ugh, fuck you,” she spits, pushing past him.

 

He reaches for her arm. “Hey, I’m sorry, I have terminal foot-in-mouth disease. Seriously, is there anything I can do?”

 

“Oh hey Nod,” Nim greets, before he sees the state of MK’s shirt. “Oh, let me get you a towel.”

 

MK squints at Nod. “Nod? You wouldn’t happen to work at the precinct, would you?”

 

“Yeah,” he says proudly, “detective in training.”

 

“Did you look after my dad’s dog?”

 

“Oh, you mean Professor Bomba’s pug, while he had to save his daughter—oh shit. I’m really sorry.”

 

“He didn’t need to save me,” MK says icily, taking the towel from Nim and patting herself down. “Our wonderful government insists that people under the age of eighteen are incapable of taking care of themselves, even if said person is less than three months from eighteen.”

 

“Yeah, but that’s a shitty situation and I’m sure it was easier to have him there?”

 

“Not exactly,” she grouses, looking up at Nim. “Can I borrow this?”

 

Nim flaps a hand. “See you tomorrow.”

 

“Look, let me walk you home?” Nod offers. “Just in case you get lost.”

 

She stares at him. “It’s like a straight path.”

 

“Turns can be tricky things,” he says, his face straight. “You don’t pay attention, all of a sudden your feet take you to strange places.”

 

She shakes her head, but sighs. “Fine. I need to change my shirt, anyway.”

 

“So how long are you staying in Moonhaven?” he asks once they’ve passed the crowd of people. His hands are tucked in his pockets, and she can better see the patch on his uniform sleeve—it’s a hummingbird shaped like a crescent moon, with MHPD printed on it.

 

She’s never seen a police uniform in _green_ before.

 

“Um, January,” she fumbles, draping the towel more firmly around her shoulders.

 

“What happens in January?”

 

“I go to college. NYU.”

 

“What are you studying?”

 

“I don’t know yet. Maybe Women’s Studies? Or even criminology. I don’t have to decide yet.”

 

“I can respect that,” Nod says. He glances at her. “I was born here, and my dad was a detective. I guess you could say police work was in my blood.”

 

“That’s nice,” MK says vaguely.

 

Nod bursts out laughing. “Man, I’ve made a terrible first impression, haven’t I?”

 

“Did you?”

 

Nod stops, and she stops too, and she realizes that they’re in front of her dad’s house—her house now. The thought is depressing. “Hey, let me try to make it up. Tonight we’re throwing a party—I mean the police force. Want to be my plus one? That way you can meet people and the police won’t gossip about you.”

 

“So tales of my past have already come this far?”

 

Nod frowns. “Not exactly. But your dad being who he is, well, the fact that he has a daughter at all is a little staggering. So we’re all a little surprised.”

 

“Here I am,” MK says glumly.

 

“So, want to come?”

 

He’s charming. And it _would_ get her out of the house.

 

“Okay,” she sighs.

 

Nod beams. “I’ll pick you up at six. Dress comfortably!”

 

“Hey!” she shouts after him. “It’s not a date!”

 

He half-turns to smile at her on his way back to town. “Yeah! Sure!”

 

MK shakes her head. As she walks up the steps into the house, she sees her dad hanging out by the door. “I see you’ve met Nod.”

 

She slides the towel off her shoulders. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

 

“He’s a good boy.”

 

“I’m sure he is,” she grumps, walking past him.

 

“Are you going out again?”

 

“Tonight,” she says, stopping with one foot on the stairs. She turns to look at him. “Why? Is something wrong?”

 

He shakes his head. “No, it’s just good to see you talking to other people.”

 

“Also, I’ve got a job with Nim in town.”

 

“The town historian? Well, that should be good,” her dad says cheerfully. “Just let me know when you go out, okay?”

 

“Yes Dad,” she says, long-suffering. “I’m going to take a shower.”

 

“Okay then!”

 

\--

 

“So is everything in place for the block party tonight?” Tara asks, sitting down carefully.

 

“I’ve got my people on it,” Ronin says, watching her. “Are you all right?”

 

“Ronin, I am _fine_. I’m pregnant, not dying.”

 

“You’re getting too close to your due date. You should be home in bed,” he frets.

 

“All right, who’s nesting now?”

 

“I’m just concerned about your safety. What happens if you go into labor at the office?”

 

“That’s why Mub and Grub are here,” Tara rolls her eyes. Her two aides, Marcus Aurelan and George Dowd, nicknamed Mub and Grub from the time they were children, both possess lead feet while driving and are trained in first aid.

 

“That doesn’t reassure me,” he tells her, sitting on her desk.

 

She tugs his tie and pulls him down into a kiss. “That’s very sweet,” she breathes once she lets him up, “but I’m not about to go into labor. I’ve got another month. Calm down, Ronin.”

 

“Are you sure you should be attending tonight? The Boggans have been making trouble again—Nod keeps getting into trouble with them--.”

 

“Oh, that poor child,” Tara sighs, sitting back gingerly. She rubs her swollen belly carefully. “Have you given him the Sunday lunch invitation yet?”

 

“You asked me about it this morning at breakfast, and I haven’t gone in yet,” he says patiently, frowning as Tara starts to massage her lower back.

 

She catches his look. “Sweetie, I am carrying around twenty extra pounds. Of course my back hurts. No, my water isn’t about to break. If this is how you act now, how are you going to act with a second one?”

 

“Are you—what—a _second one_?”

 

“What, you think I want to stop at _one_ child?” she laughs. “Now go away. I have work to do, and so do you.”

 

“I’ll be back around dinner.”

 

“I know you will,” she says fondly. “Give me a kiss before you go.”

 

“Well, I’m always up for that,” he tells her, leaning down and kissing her gently.

 

She wraps her arms around his neck and deepens it, and he slides a hand into her hair at the back of her neck, letting his mouth open under hers.

 

“Hem- _hem_ ,” Mub coughs pointedly at the door. “Madam Mayor, I have the data you requested.”

 

Tara laughs lightly against Ronin’s mouth. “Yes, bring it here. Thank you, Mub.”

 

Ronin stands, straightening his suit jacket and tie.

 

“Bring me oysters for dinner,” Tara orders, smiling.

 

Ronin raises a brow. “I’m sure we can have fun without them. You know--.”

 

“Do you promise?” she says wickedly.

 

Mub makes a quiet noise, but they both ignore him. “I could be,” Ronin says.

 

“Very well,” Tara says. “I look forward to it.”

 

Ronin takes his leave, heading back out to the station, passing Grub on the way. As he enters, Finn joins him. “Nod’s late. Again.”

 

“Has he given any reason for it?”

 

Finn shakes his head. “He was supposed to be in charge of dismantling the street racing that Bufo runs Thursday and Saturday nights.”

 

“And?”

 

Finn squirms. “It’s possible he got caught up in the racing itself.”

 

“Meaning he raced.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Ronin rolls his eyes up to the heavens. “That boy will be the death of me.”

 

“Or at least your grey hairs.”

 

“Shut it.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“As soon as he gets here, send him in, will you?”

 

“Will do.”

 

He walks into his office and closes the door (universal _do not bother_ sign), and sighs, letting his shoulders slump in an attempt to drain some of the tension. It doesn’t work, so he sits down, pulling on his eyeglasses as he reads reports.

 

He’s not aware of how much time has passed, because he’s absorbed in Aisling’s report of a drug shipment coming in that night, but there’s a knock at the door. “Come in,” he calls, putting aside the report.

 

Nod swaggers in, his hat under his arm.

 

“You’re late.”

 

“I have a reason--.”

 

“You always do. But that’s not what I want to talk to you about. Close the door.”

 

Nod raises his eyebrows as he complies. “How much trouble am I in?”

 

“Sit down.”

 

“Oh, a _lot_ of trouble. What did I do now?”

 

“Correct me if I’m wrong at any time, but you were instructed to shut down Bufo’s street racing, yes?”

 

Nod pales. “Um, yes.”

 

“Can you explain why, a) that did not occur, and b) why you _took a part_?” Ronin’s voice is quiet and could have cut ice.

 

“Hey, I didn’t have back-up--.”

 

Ronin grabs the report from Finn and shoves it at Nod. “You deliberately did not _ask_ for back-up. And if you attempt to say that you work better on your own--.”

 

“I do!”

 

“—then you fail to understand how this works. We work _together_ , for mutual benefit and mutual safety. Any Boggan who wanted to make a name for his or her self could learn where you are going to be at a certain time and _kill_ you, and we would be unable to do anything to prevent it, because you are never where you say you are going to be, and you always ditch your partner.” If this were any other person on the force, Ronin would be demanding their badge and service weapon.

 

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re on the desk until I feel better about you.”

 

“What? _Why?_ I’m good, I--.”

 

“Need to learn how to work with people, not against,” Ronin interjects. “Don’t make me visit your mother to tell her you got killed because you were stupid. Don’t make me do that.”

 

“Bringing my mom into this?” Nod shakes his head. “That’s low.”

 

“Well, considering that I had to tell her your father was killed in line of duty when you were seven and she’s never forgiven me, I’m more than happy to bring her into this,” Ronin snaps. “Mess up one more time, and you’re out, Nod, I mean it.”

 

Nod opens his mouth, perhaps to do something stupid like quit, but then he closes his mouth and sighs. “Yes sir.”

 

“Dismissed,” Ronin mutters, turning back to Aisling’s report. “Oh, wait.”

 

“What is it?” Nod asks tiredly.

 

“Tara wants you over for Sunday lunch.”

 

“Will do.” If there’s one thing you definitely don’t want to do, it’s turn Tara down for Sunday lunch, and now that Tara’s pregnant and thus hormonal, you definitely don’t turn her down for lunch. “Can I bring someone?”

 

Ronin quirks a brow as his lips are tugged into a slight smirk. “Finally talked someone into dating you?”

 

“Hey,” Nod protests, “and, um, maybe. I’ve got a week to talk her into it.”

 

A soft laugh escapes his lips as his blue eyes shift to the other male. “Should I be concerned?”

 

“Oh no,” Nod chuckles lightly as he shakes his head, “but she’s new in town, and that can be, well, overwhelming.”

 

“Right, of course,” Ronin quips, kind of side-tracked and only half paying attention. “I’ll ask Tara.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

After a few moments of silence, Ronin turns his eyes toward Nod, tilting his head toward the door. “Tell Finn I need to see him and Aisling when they get a moment.”

 

Nod sticks his head out the door. “ _FINN_.”

 

Heaving a sigh, Ronin pinches the bridge of his nose. “Because that’s completely what I meant,” he mutters irritably.

 

Finn pops up next to Nod. “You called?”

 

“I did, but I need Aisling, too. Where is she?”

 

Finn elbows Nod good-naturedly. “Get out of here, kid. Your desk is your new best friend.”

 

“Ha-ha,” Nod sulks, leaving the two of them while Finn gestures for Aisling to join them. When she does, Finn closes the door and they sit down in the chairs across from Ronin, and he leans back in his chair.

 

“You’re sure that information is good?”

 

Aisling nods. “Talked to the source myself. He told me the reason why they wanted to do it tonight is because of the block-party.”

 

“That makes sense,” Ronin pulls off his glasses, folding them and tapping his palm with their rims. “Did he say how big the shipment is?”

 

“Biggest one of the year, straight out of South America.”

 

“You think we should call the DEA?” Finn leans forward, “Since this could be an international thing.”

 

“I’ll make that call,” Ronin decides. “They’ll need some of us, though. Who can we ask to quietly work tonight without drawing attention by fact of their absence?”

 

“Well, Aisling’s a good start,” Finn says, glancing at her. “I should probably be in on it, too. You should be at the block-party. If me _and_ you are missing, that usually means something big’s about to go down.”

 

“I’m not leaving Tara on her own at this stage,” Ronin dismisses, waving his hand. “Stay here while I call them.”

 

Both Finn and Aisling nod, and Finn sprawls out his chair with Aisling perches on the edge of hers as Ronin calls the local DEA branch. “I’ve got you on speaker, Robb.”

 

“Who else is there?”

 

“My second in command, Finn Sudder and Aisling Chêne. She’s the one who got the information.”

 

“Tell me what you’ve learned.”

 

Ronin sketches it out for Robb Geddard, their DEA guy. He listens about the shipment, and then he’s quiet for a moment. “So, you want full SWAT?”

 

“I’d like to arrest the gang members here, bring them in on our continuing investigation against Mandrake Zerfall, but if you need to bring them in to the DEA, just let us question them.”

 

“You’re always willing to play ball with us, we’re very glad about that.” Robb makes a low sound, before adding, “We have to take them in, but I’ll make sure your people get a chance to question them before we move them on.”

 

“I appreciate it,” Ronin says.

 

“All right, I’ll send a team out there in a couple of hours, and we can scope out the land and everything. The works.”

 

“See you then.”

 

“Good luck Chief.”

 

“So, now that that’s done,” Finn says, sitting up. “Well, not done-done, but done.”

 

Aisling nods slowly. “Do you want us to stay close to the station until the DEA gets here?”

 

“No, go home, the two of you. Get some rest. Tonight’s going to run long. I want you fresh. Be back here by four fifteen.”

 

“Yes sir,” Aisling salutes, and Finn follows it up, and they both leave his office.

 

Ronin waits until they’re gone, and then he opens a drawer— _the_ drawer—stuffed full with files devoted only to the continuing investigation against Mandrake. It’s got everything they were able to document, but most of it’s so circumstantial a judge won’t issue a warrant for it. If they could get some Boggans to turn, to inform on Mandrake, these files could be closed forever.

 

He shuts the drawer. No. Focus on one thing at a time. Stop this shipment of raw cocaine, and work on turning Boggans later.

 

He becomes absorbed in some other reports—Bomba Radcliffe got a complaint for light pollution again, he should send someone to talk to him about that—petty vandalism, Nim got a ticket for drunk and disorderly behavior, nothing major.

 

He’s interrupted by his aide at twelve, who gives him a sandwich and a glass of tea, which he eats without tasting and going back to reports, this time on less petty issues. Bufo’s street racing features prominently, but there’s an addition at the end that makes him sit up.

 

Boggans have been dealing _at_ the street racing?

 

“NOD.”

 

Nod sticks his head inside Ronin’s office. “You called?”

 

“Did you see any Boggans dealing when you were racing?” he asks.

 

“No,” Nod frowns, “though they might’ve been dealing when not wearing their colors. The crowd wasn’t happy to see me there, though when I didn’t shut it down, they grew friendlier. I did see some people clearing out when I got there, but I didn’t get a good look at them.”

 

Ronin lets his head hit the desk. “Damnit. If we could place you _at the scene_...”

 

“If I’d seen them dealing, I would’ve arrested them.”

 

“That would have been monumentally stupid,” Ronin retorts, “and a good way to get yourself killed. No back-up, remember? The crowd’s more likely to turn on you than allow you to arrest their dealers.”

 

Nod frowns. “But--.”

 

“Never mind. But thanks,” Ronin waves a hand, putting that report into Bufo’s folder. They could arrest Bufo for illegal gambling and city racing, with the various charges that came with it—noise pollution, disturbance of the peace, etc—and as far as Ronin knows (which is a lot), Bufo hates Mandrake and could be enticed to inform on him for a reduction in his sentence.

 

Yeah, that’s definitely something to keep in mind.

 

Work consumes him until Aisling and Finn come back. They’re both in civvies, which is for the best. The DEA arrives not long after that, and Robb heads straight for Ronin, walking into the office and closing the door. “You couldn’t have given us more warning?”

 

“Aisling didn’t find out what was going down until late last night, and she told me as soon as I came in. Mandrake Zerfall’s smart, he keeps the details close to his chest until the last possible minute to prevent well-executed raids.”

 

Robb sighs. “It’s a good thing I like you, Vigile. All right, we’ll need everyone important in your conference room ASAP.”

 

As they enter, they see Finn’s already set up the maps and building plans. “This is where the shipment’s coming in,” Finn says, jerking a thumb at the truck stop. “It will be disguised as something innocuous.”

 

“Fruit. They’re hiding it with a fruit shipment,” Aisling says quietly.

 

“The way the Boggans usually go about this kind of thing is that they have people stationed all around the area. We’re trying to figure out who they’ve got as informers around the truck stops, but we do know that they’re turned the controller.” Aisling sketches a path on the map, and the DEA agents watch her attentively. “This is probably the best shot we have of getting everyone in place without tipping off anyone. The Boggans get complacent, because they think we haven’t had enough time to pull together a raid.”

 

“It’s also likely they’ll have civilians at the scene with different kinds of cameras,” Finn comments. “We haven’t had the issues that New York City and Los Angeles have had with overzealous police, but if Breitbart’s team proves anything, a little bit of video and a lot of editing can make us look worse than New York City and LA combined. Keep everything straight.”

 

“Zerfall isn’t above this kind of tactic to use against Mayor Sylva,” Ronin adds to the DEA agents, who look a little confused. “Considering that this of action can only come with her approval...”

 

“That makes perfect sense. All right, what time is the shipment coming in?” Robb asks, looking around the room.

 

“2000 hours, sir,” Aisling tells him.

 

“That gives us three hours to get into place. Grab your gear, we’re moving out. We’ll keep you updated,” Robb says, watching the rest of his team move out. “We’ll try to keep this clean.” They clasp forearms.

 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Ronin nods, letting him go past.

 

“Chief?”

 

“Yes Annalise?” Ronin looks at his aide.

 

“The mayor’s on the phone.”

 

Ronin lunges for the receiver, pulling the phone towards him. “Tara? Are you okay?”

 

“I’m _fine_ ,” Tara sighs, sounding a little nettled. And tired, Ronin realizes after a beat. “I don’t think I can make it to the block-party tonight. Mub’s taking me home and getting me settled into bed. Grub’s already called for Chinese, but I’m assuming you’re going to eat at the block-party, so we’re not going to order for you.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“I’m tired,” Tara answers. “And you’ve got things to do.”

 

Ronin looks out the window of his office, where Robb and Aisling are conferring in whispers. “I’ll be home later tonight.”

 

“Is something wrong?”

 

Ronin smiles. “No. Block party, remember? Nod’s got some new girl, I have to make sure she won’t get him into trouble.”

 

“Is it Professor Radcliffe’s girl? That’s the only girl that I can think of as ‘new.’”

 

“What?”

 

“Oh sweetie,” Tara sighs, “Sometimes you can be the master of my whisperers, and other times it seems like you’ve got concrete in your ears. Professor Radcliffe’s girl, you know, she lost her mother?”

 

“Oh yes,” Ronin frowns. “Could be her. But she’d be a little young for Nod, wouldn’t she?”

 

“The boy’s nineteen.”

 

“And the girl’s clearly under the age of eighteen. Who would choose to live with Radcliffe?”

 

Tara tsks. “Be kind, Ronin.”

 

Ronin rolls his eyes. “I do not have to like everyone.”

 

“But you should still be polite.” He hears Tara shift over the phone. “Mub? All right, Ronin, I’ll see you tonight.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I love you.”

 

He pauses, before saying, “I love you too.”

 

Annalise is standing outside the door, and she asks anxiously, “Is Mayor Sylva all right?”

 

“She’s fine, but she feels too tired to come the block-party. I should go home--.”

 

“No, you need to be here,” Annalise says firmly. “Finn’s right—if the both of you are gone, even for innocuous reasons, it’ll tip off the people you _don’t_ want tipped off. Besides, I made chili.”

 

“Then I must stay,” Ronin deadpans.

 

Annalise pouts, but closes the door behind her.

 

Nod knocks on the door some time later, his jacket thrown over his shoulder. “Hey, I’m leaving to go pick up my girl. You actually going to be sociable?”

 

“I have to be,” Ronin grumps, standing up and undoing his tie, folding it into his desk drawer. He looks at Nod. “Casual enough?”

 

“Ditch the jacket, undo the first two buttons and roll up your sleeves,” Nod criticizes. “Of course, if you kept something like a polo shirt in your locker like the rest of us, you wouldn’t have this issue.”

 

Ronin rolls his eyes, doing so. “I’m still your commanding officer.”

 

“The gun really sends that message home,” Nod remarks, holding open the door as Ronin exits, falling into step with him.

 

“Are you going to bother ‘your girl’ as much as you bother me?”

 

Nod grins. “Well, she’s already a little pissed at me, so I probably already have.”

 

“How did you already piss her off?” Ronin asks exasperatedly.

 

Nod winks. “She might tell you. Later!”

 

“That boy is either going to be brilliant or a wash out,” Ronin grumbles to Annalise, who somehow dressed in block-party attire in the fifteen minutes between the end of his call with Tara and Nod coming to get him. Her jeans and red flannel shirt scream casual, and he wonders if she’s going to continue her flirtation with Birch tonight. Most likely.

 

“I’d put my money on brilliant,” Annalise says, checking her boots. “He just needs to find his way. Is this the first girl he’s introduced to you, or will?”

 

Ronin blinks. “I’m aware he’s had flirtations, but--.”

 

“You’ve never actually met them,” Annalise finishes. “He might have a good feeling about this one.”

 

“I think it’s Radcliffe’s daughter.”

 

Annalise sucks in a breath. “That’s...interesting.”

 

“Why do you say that?”

 

“Sir, her mother was murdered. She may look at his badge and his uniform and run as far as she can get from our kind of life.”

 

Ronin frowns. “Her mother was murdered? I’d just thought she died.”

 

“Because you’re better than the rest of us and don’t pay attention to petty gossip,” Annalise laughs, tucking her arm into his as they walk out of the police station to the park in front of Town Hall. “Yeah, it was really brutal, apparently, but the details were not made public, and I can tell you there are people in this town who tried.”

 

“I remember Radcliffe’s wife, vaguely. She was the one who made the effort, and she was involved in a lot of community efforts.” His frown deepens. “Tara would know more.”

 

“Either way, Nod may be barking up the wrong tree. I’d let him figure it out, but you should warn him.”

 

“Let me meet the girl first,” Ronin tells her, letting go of her. “Then I’ll see what I need to do.”

 

Annalise smiles, but her eyes are sad. “Of course, sir.”

 

The party’s already started, with some of the veterans laughing with their families, and he walks through them, greeting each other them, their spouses, and their children. He’s done his walk-through and is settling down by the grill when Nod shows up with a pretty redheaded girl in tow.

 

He argues with himself whether he should get up, and when Nod makes a beeline for him, he decides that yes, he should. He’s putting down his soda when Nod approaches. “Hey, Ronin. This is MK Kennedy, and MK, this is Chief Ronin Vigile, my commanding officer.”

 

MK looks very guarded, and there’s a wall of space between her and Nod, but she offers her hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

 

“Call me Ronin,” he jerks a thumb at Nod as he squeezes her hand once, “ _that_ one’s supposed to call me Chief.”

 

MK smiles slightly, but it looks forced.

 

Ronin becomes aware that everyone in the general area is staring, and they’re staring at her. No wonder she’s guarded. “Would you like to come this way? We can get you a soda or something.”

 

“I’m fine,” MK tries, but Nod shakes his head.

 

“Don’t say that around Annalise or Maria,” Nod warns her, “they believe in showing love by feeding people.”

 

“My mom’s best friend is like that,” MK says softly, and Ronin watches her carefully, but there’s nothing to indicate she’s having a moment. “She feeds people.”

 

Nod’s practically vibrating, and Ronin eyes him. He’s never seen him this excited.

 

MK, on the other hand, looks less than enthused.

 

“So, you’re here with Nod?” he gestures to Nod.

 

“Yes,” Nod says.

 

“No,” MK says. She glares at him. “He’s doing this as a favor, since he ruined one of my shirts this morning.”

 

“Coffee...washes...” Nod’s voice trails off.

 

“He ruined one of my shirts this morning,” MK repeats firmly. “I was walking out of the bookstore and he collided with me, spilling his Frappuccino all over me.”

 

Ronin looks at Nod. “ _That’s_ why you were late?”

 

“He walked me home, because apparently I could get lost walking in a straight line,” MK explains, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. The smile doesn’t grow, and Ronin remembers that he doesn’t smile much either, for likely similar reasons.

 

When you’ve seen a lot, you save your smiles for what matters.

 

Ronin purses his lips, and Nod looks guilty. Flirting is not an adequate excuse for tardiness. “I’m gonna go get drinks,” Nod says quickly. “Annalise makes the most amazing root beer. I’ll be right back.”

 

“So, out of curiosity, how much trouble is he in?” MK asks with interest, seemingly ignorant to the stares and the whispers.

 

“A fair amount.”

 

“Is it all because of me? No, wait, that’s phrased wrong. How much of that trouble is because he stopped to flirt?”

 

“Not all of it,” Ronin admits, “but it’s police business.”

 

“Does he always act that way? The cockiness, I mean?”

 

“Yes,” Ronin sighs.

 

She surprises him by giggling. “You sound so put out,” she says, covering her mouth with her hand.

 

“I’ve known him since he was a kid,” he explains, offering her a seat as he sits down himself. She perches on the armest. “He’s always been that cocky.”

 

“You good friends with his family?”

 

“His father was my best friend, but he died in the line of duty when Nod was seven.”

 

MK nods, watching Nod come back with drinks. Ronin checks his watch, feeling himself growing anxious. It’s 6:43. In an hour and fifteen minutes, his people and the DEA will be intercepting that shipment.

 

He doesn’t believe in anything other than law and duty, but right now he wishes he believed in Tara’s Goddess, or any higher being that might be willing to tip the balance if he asked. Mandrake’s hold over Moonhaven has only been contested since Tara became Mayor, but it’s still a chokehold.

 

“Is something wrong?” MK asks.

 

“His wife’s pregnant. He’s probably counting down the minutes until he can go home without seeming rude,” Nod smirks, offering a soda to MK, who takes it without opening it. Ronin shifts in his seat, flashing a look of thanks to his subordinate.

 

“Oh, really? Do you know the sex yet?”

 

“Tara wants to keep it a surprise,” Ronin says dryly. “Though I think it’s a girl.”

 

“Are you talking about names?”

 

What is it about women and babies? “Yes, but we haven’t agreed on anything yet.”

 

“It’s getting close,” Nod reminds him. “She’s got, what, a month left?”

 

“Roughly,” Ronin agrees.

 

“You should get on that,” Nod says playfully, sitting in the chair that MK is perching on the arm of. MK stiffens, which is interesting, but she doesn’t say anything.

 

“I was asking Nod about this, but he didn’t answer me with any certainty, so I’ll ask you. Does the police department offer self-defense classes?”

 

“Yes, we do on Wednesday nights, from 7:30 to 9:30,” Ronin tells her. “The teachers are mixed, but the students are primarily women.” When MK relaxes slightly, he knew that was the right thing to say. “Also, on Saturday nights, we have free-for-all sessions, for all of my officers and the civilians who wish to join them. They usually end in all parties going to the Hummingbird Café for dinner.”

 

“What’s the cost of the classes?”

 

“They’re free. The teachers are volunteers.”

 

MK nods slowly, and she looks like she’s parsing through it. Nod nudges her. “Are you preparing for living on a college campus?”

 

“No,” MK’s tone is familiar to Ronin. It’s one he often uses with Nod. “You never know when you might need to defend yourself.”

 

Ronin hides his cringe. Nod needs to learn how to read people better. His phone buzzes with a text, and he checks in, hoping it isn’t Tara or Finn.

 

It’s worse. It’s the county coroner.

 

‘Got a John Doe. Boggan tats. OD’d.’

 

Ronin frowns. “Excuse me,” he tells Nod and MK, leaving the block party to go back into his office. He dials the city morgue, tapping his foot on the cheap carpet. “Richard? What do you mean, you’ve got a John Doe with Boggan tats? Why wasn’t I told?”

 

“Because he was checked into the ER about ten minutes ago. He convulsed on his bed, scaring the doctor, and died within a minute. Since he’s got Boggan tats, we’re presuming he OD’d, but I have to do the autopsy.”

 

“Who checked him in?” Ronin asks sharply, sitting down at his computer and powering it up. He can access hospital security camera footage from there.

 

“The nurse checking them in doesn’t remember,” Richard’s voice is carefully neutral, and Ronin frowns even more.

 

“What’s her name?”

 

“Marissa Brown.”

 

Ronin enters the name, and finds a Robert Brown, currently in the county jail for a DWI. “She related to Robert Brown?”

 

“Yeah, think so.”

 

Brown got his drugs from the Boggans. It’s not a huge stretch to imagine Marissa’s also in deep with them. “I’ll send an officer to detain Marissa.”

 

“She just got off shift.”

 

Ronin bites back a curse. “I need her contact info.”

 

“Will do.”

 

“Once you find something, call me immediately, all right? Boggans don’t usually turn on their--.” Fuck. Fuck.

 

“Richard, I’ll need to call you back,” Ronin says tersely, hanging up. He takes out his phone to text Finn.

 

‘Abort raid. Boggans know.’

 

When he doesn’t get an answering text from Finn, Ronin tries to call him, but it goes straight to voicemail, not even bothering to ring.

 

The truck stop gets uncertain coverage. _Fuck_.

 

In vain, he texts Aisling and Robb, but doesn’t hear anything from them either. He’ll have to go to the truck stop, and damn the consequences. He gets up to go, but then sits back down as the ground shakes.

 

Connecticut doesn’t do earthquakes. The only reason the ground would shake like that is if there was an explosion, and a large one at that.

 

Nod runs in, holding onto MK’s hand like a lifeline. “Ronin, the truck stop just exploded.”

 

“There was a raid,” Ronin tells him, and Nod lets go of MK, walking closer to him.

 

“Who was there?”

 

“Of ours, Finn and Aisling. The DEA was also there. Somehow the Boggans knew we were coming. I need to get first responders to the scene.”

 

Nod nods, standing aside so that Ronin can make the call. While he does, he looks over the two of them. Nod’s pale, but MK’s the interesting one. Her face is set, and she’s holding her right upper arm with her left hand, but she seems calm.

 

Into the receiver, Ronin snaps out an order for ambulances and fire rescues to the truck stop, and reaches for his gun and badge out of his desk.

 

“What do you want me to do?” Nod asks.

 

“Take MK home, in a squad car. Don’t walk tonight—the Boggans might be out, planning things while we’re preoccupied. Once you get home, stay inside,” he tells MK. “Don’t let your father go out on one of his nightly exploring trips. Once you drop her off, go to my home. Don’t let Tara know you’re there—she’s probably heading to bed, just wait outside on the porch with your service weapon. I wouldn’t put it past Mandrake to try to harm her tonight. Don’t leave until I get there.”

 

“Okay,” Nod says determinedly.

 

“What are you going to do?” MK asks.

 

“I have to go, see what’s happened,” Ronin scrubs a hand through his short silver hair. “Check on my people. The Boggans knew we were coming. I want to know why.”

 

Nod gestures to MK that they should leave, and they do so, Ronin following once he’s grabbed his keys.

 

\--

 

MK watches Nod from the corner of her eyes in the car. His face is fixed, and whoever Finn and Aisling are, he knows them, and he’s worried. “Who are the Boggans?”

 

“Our local gang,” Nod says, not taking his eyes off the road. “They deal in theft, drugs, and some murder. Ronin’s been trying to nail their leader, Mandrake, for years. Nothing’s stuck.”

 

“They blew up a truck stop?”

 

“Mandrake hates Ronin. If he thought he could kill Ronin, he’d abandon his usual ‘subtlety’ and ‘finesse.’”

 

“And Tara?”

 

“Our mayor and Ronin’s wife. The police department didn’t exactly have permission to go after Mandrake until Tara was voted in, and Mandrake’s not above hurting your family to hurt you.”

 

“He’d really go after the mayor?”

 

“He has before.” Nod pulls to a stop. “Be careful tomorrow too. Are you working tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I’d drive, if I were you.”

 

“I don’t have a car,” MK tells him, opening the door and getting out. “But I do have a bike.”

 

“Stay safe,” Nod tells her before she closes the door, “and welcome to Moonhaven.”

 

She makes a face at him and closes the door, walking up to the house. She can see the beacon that is the burning truck stop, not too far away, and she hurries up the steps into her house.

 

Her dad hasn’t even noticed, and he says hello to MK before immersing himself in his research again.

 

Guess Moonhaven might be more than what she thought. She’s not happy about that.

 

The next morning, she wakes up around 9:30. The sky is bright and clear, and the smoke stain from the truck stop has disappeared completely. Her father’s already up (while they shared her home for about a month, she learned he was a disgusting morning person), but the smell of coffee lingers, and when she peeks in the kitchen, she sees he made enough for her.

 

Grateful for it, she pours herself a mug and fixes it how she likes it, three creams and two sugars.

 

It takes about twenty minutes to walk from her house to the bookshop (she watched her watch yesterday when Nod picked her up). If there’s still unrest, she’ll have no way of knowing, since her dad lives so far out.

 

“Do you get local news?” she calls to her dad as she searches for food for breakfast.

 

“Try KBTA-9,” her dad calls back. “That’s the local ABC affiliate.”

 

The kitchen has a small television, and she turns it on, searching until she finds the correct channel, turning up the volume while she searches for something. Her dad apparently went grocery shopping while she was out, because she finds a small square of cheddar wrapped in plastic (reading _Oaktree Grocery_ ), and there’s bread too, so bread and cheese for breakfast. She puts the bread slices into the ancient toaster, and watches the news, finally coming back from a commercial break.

 

“And to follow up on a breaking news story from last night, Chief Vigile has assured both KBTA and concerned citizens that last night’s explosion is under continued investigation. At least ten people were injured in the blast, and two were killed. The families have chosen not to release their names at this time.” The cut pans to Ronin, who looks incredibly tired. “At the time of the explosion, the Moonhaven police and the DEA were investigating a link,” Ronin says, deep circles under his eyes. “Given that the dead include some of our own, while this investigation is continuing, we just want to send out thoughts and prayers at this time, thank you.”

 

“Crazy, huh,” her dad remarks, leaning against the doorpost. “He doesn’t have to say anything, but we all know the Boggans are involved. If they’ve killed more of our police, I don’t know what Vigile is going to do.”

 

“It’s such a small town—why are the Boggans here in the first place?”

 

Dad makes a considering noise, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know when it started, exactly. You’d have to ask Nim that—guy knows everything. When we moved here, originally, it’s because Moonhaven University offered me a job in their science department as an animal behaviorist professor. Your mom picked up right away that something was wrong, but teaching jobs were low on the ground at the time, and I liked it here—liked the access to the forest and the general air of the place. When she left,” Dad gestures helplessly, “that’s when I started picking up on it, but I spent more time out of the town than in it, so--.”

 

“You ignored it.”

 

“Essentially, yeah.”

 

MK sighs, checking her watch. Dad sees it. “When do you need to go in?”

 

“I need to leave around 11:30.”

 

“You’ve got plenty of time,” Dad says cheerfully. “Are you excited?”

 

“It’s book work,” MK dismisses, “I can do book work.”

 

“Preparation for being a TA?” Her dad looks so hopeful, and she honestly has no idea why.

 

“You know I don’t need federal aid or a work study to pay for college, right?”

 

“Networking,” her dad chides softly.

 

He’s trying. He’s trying really hard. She should remember that.

 

“I don’t know if I want to be in academia,” she says awkwardly, putting down the orange juice. “I don’t know what I want to do anymore.”

 

Her dad’s face softens. “That’s fine.”

 

Worst thing about this whole arrangement? Normally Dad wouldn’t care. Why does it take her mother being mur— _dying_ to get this kind of response?

 

Suddenly angry, MK picks up her juice and plate full of bread and cheese, brushing past him to go back to her room.

 

“MK? What did I say?”

 

She chooses not to respond, stomping up the stairs and closing the door to her room. She eats the bread and cheese in pieces as she scans through John Oliver’s _Daily Show_ sketches (he’s been hitting more than misses, which is more than she can say for Jon Stewart these days).

 

She feels...ambivalent about the job at the bookshop. She has to meet people (and given that this is a small town, _everyone’s_ going to be there to share commiserations with the poor, almost orphaned girl over a woman they barely remember), but on the other hand, she doesn’t have to be around her dad for every minute of every day.

 

And disposable income is a plus.

 

She plays around until the clock inches towards 11, and she gets dressed. Dad has a bike in the garage. Hopefully it won’t be _too_ rusted.

 

It’s not. It’s actually in good condition, and when MK looks it over, she realizes it’s the bike Dad uses on his expeditions into the forest. She sticks her head into the house, “Dad?”

 

“Yeah?” her father answers, his voice faint thanks to walls.

 

“Can I use your bike?”

 

“Yeah!”

 

“Thanks!”

 

The drive to the bookshop (apparently called the ‘Rings of Knowledge.’ MK will not admit she finds it endearing) is uneventful, and when she checks in, Nim’s waiting for her with a name-tag and paperwork. While she fills it out, he chatters, “When someone walks in, greet them, and after a little bit, ask them if you can help them find anything. The books are in alphabetical order by author, and organized by genre. The window displays change according to the holidays, but we’ll get there later. One window’s devoted to children’s books, the other to gardening and cooking. The back wall display is for new fiction.”

 

“That makes sense,” she remarks. “Cleaning?”

 

“Dust the books before you clock out for the night, and garbage, of course. The dumpster’s behind the store, we share it with the Hummingbird Café.” Nim passes her a key. “You lean on the door a little to lock it. The security system’s in the back, and I change the password weekly. The safe’s in the office. Do you know how to log sales for the day?”

 

“I worked in the school library,” she says pointedly.

 

“Tell you what, I’ll help you close tonight so that you get the hang of it,” Nim beams. He checks his watch. “I really need to go.”

 

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Can’t be that hard.”

 

“That’s the spirit! Bye.”

 

She puts away her lunch in the small refrigerator, before seating herself on the stool behind the counter in the front. She drums her fingers on the worn oaken counter, before looking underneath it. Nim’s apparently reading a Benjamin Franklin biography, and there are different pens and slips of paper scatted everywhere.

 

She puts them in order, and resumes drumming her fingers on the counter.

 

The bell at the door tolls, and she sits bolt upright. Two older women come in, one with a purple hat and the other with a white one. They look like they’ve stepped out of a Victorian picture book, in dresses with high collars and sleeves that cover the top of their hands. “Oh hello dear,” Purple Hat says kindly. “You must be Mary Katherine.”

 

“Actually it’s MK,” she says, fighting the urge to spit it out. “Is there anything I can help you ladies find today?”

 

“Oh no, we’re just browsing,” White Hat says, tugging on Purple Hat’s arm. “We’ll let you know if we need anything.”

 

They head for Poetry, and MK moves out of the way, straightening some of the other bookshelves—the fiction section is particularly unordered—and she’s working on sections H-M when Purple Hat appears at her elbow. “We’re having some trouble deciding, dear.”

 

“Who are you looking at?” MK asks, following Purple Hat back to White Hat. When she gets there, she pivots so she’s facing the two of them, even though she itches at having her back to the door.

 

“We were looking at Romantic poets, but then we saw Edmund Spenser, and we wondered what you thought.”

 

“Well, Edmund Spenser wrote a very long poem—multiple books—called _The Faerie Queene_ , and it may have been based on Elizabeth I. It’s a long, twisting tale, and personally I love it, but the language can be difficult. If you’re looking at Edmund Spenser,” she quickly checks to make sure Nim’s stocked it, and yes he has, “I personally recommend John Donne. His poems can be...risqué, but there’s a sense of humor throughout it all. If you don’t like his poems, he has these meditations—they were his sermons—that are just great, like ‘Meditation XVII,’ among others. I love his poetry,” she confesses to Purple Hat and White Hat. “He’s cheeky, but charming about it, so I forgive him.”

 

White Hat opens her mouth to say something, but something changes her mind. MK frowns. “Is something wrong?”

 

White Hat shakes her head, and next to her, Purple Hat is covering her mouth with her hand, and it looks like she’s smiling, but why would she hide that? Whatever. She hates this town. “However, you did say you were looking at Romantic poetry. In that case—John Keats. His mastery of language is absolutely beautiful, and there is a sad, mournful tone to a lot of his poetry, but then you get poems like ‘Bright Star,’ and it just makes you think everything’s going to be okay.”

 

“Is there a collection?” Purple Hat inquires.

 

“Well, we have this,” she pulls down _She Walks In Beauty: A Woman’s Journey Through Poems_. “It’s compiled by Caroline Kennedy, of _the_ Kennedys, and it has a lot of poetry from different authors and time periods—Gertrude Stein, John Donne, Frank O’Hara, Emily Bronte...It has one of my favorite poems in here, ‘I’m happiest when most away.’”

 

“I’ll take it,” Purple Hat says decisively. “You’ve convinced me. What about you?”

 

“I’m still thinking,” White Hat says, smiling. “You check out.”

 

“Are you ready then?” MK asks Purple Hat. Purple Hat nods, tucking _She Walks In Beauty_ into the curve of her arm and following MK to the register. It’s a fairly simple process, _very_ similar to what she did for school, so she picks it up immediately.

 

White Hat decides not to get anything _today_ , but she “will be back.” MK smiles, wrapping up Purple Hat’s book and putting it in a bag, but says nothing.

 

Once the little bell dings their departure, MK sighs and puts her head down on the counter. There was this...underlying _sympathy_ to their whole interaction, and she really doesn’t want to find out later Purple Hat only bought the book to feel sorry for her.

 

“Mark but this flea, and mark in this,” Oh no. You’ve _got_ to be joking. She sits up, but the speaker doesn’t yet appear, “How little which thou deniest me is; It suck’d me first, and now sucks thee.”

 

Oh no. No, no, _no_. She glares at Nod as he appears on her side of the art shelf, cradling a book between the fingers of his left palm. He’s grinning. “In this flea our two bloods mingled be. Thou know’st that this cannot be said, a sin nor shame nor loss of maidenhead—.”

 

“Okay stop,” she orders him, coming around the counter to reach for the tome. “Put the John Donne away, you’re not even reading it correctly.”

 

“Is there a correct way to read poetry? I thought it was all on interpretation,” he counters, holding the book higher than she can jump.

 

“Wow, that’s so mature,” she grumbles, reaching for it. “It’s John Donne writing in Olde English. Of course there’s a right way to read it _out loud_. Give me the book, Nod!”

 

“I have to say, he’s dirtier than I thought,” Nod says thoughtfully, turning on the balls of his feet to go deeper into the bookstore. She trails him, eyeing the book. “This poem—he’s trying to get this girl into bed, right?”

 

“Yeah,” she says suspiciously.

 

“And since she’s refused him, he’s pulling the flea tactic, which is, y’know, our blood have already mingled in the flea, so it’s like we’re married, so no need to worry about the moral aspect of sleeping with me?” Nod whistles. “ _That’s_ creativity.”

 

“Yes, well,” she lunges for the book, and he raises it, causing her to crash into him. He smiles down at her, and she rips herself out of his arms. “He’s kind of known for doing that.”

 

“Oh, I see,” Nod says, brandishing the book. It’s _Love Poems of John Donne_. “So you’re able to forgive cheekiness if it’s charming?”

 

“How much of that conversation did you hear?”

 

“Enough. John Keats, huh? Should I seduce you with words, then?”

 

“They wouldn’t be yours—give me the book, Nod.” He hands it to her, but refuses to let go as he tries to hold her gaze with his.

 

“I don’t think I’ve heard you so passionate on anything. It was...nice,” his smirk tells her what exactly he’s thinking of.

 

“ _Ugh_ ,” she reaches out and shoves him with him an open palm. He stumbles, and she rescues the book from him, going to put it away. Once she carefully tucks the John Donne after Dante, she turns and Nod’s _right there_ , and she stumbles against the bookcase. He grabs her upper arm to steady her, and she jerks it out of his grasp once she’s no longer in danger of falling. He’s leaning in, no doubt about to attempt another line, but she decides to cut the snake off at the head and says, “On the news this morning, it said last night’s explosion injured ten and killed two, including some of your own?”

 

Nod sighs and takes a step back. She feels the panic recede. “Yeah. Of _our_ people, Finn got shot—he’s in the hospital now. Aisling got treated for shock, but one of the dead is a DEA agent, Robb Geddard, and the other dead is a Boggan. Other DEA agents were injured, and other Boggans, but it looks like they’ll pull through.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Ronin knew Geddard, not me,” Nod rubs the back of his neck. “Thing is, Mandrake isn’t against killing his own people to achieve his goals, so since that’s not a motivator, Ronin’s stuck.”

 

“Why do people still align with him, then?” she asks, heading back to the counter for a dust cloth. The poetry section could use it.

 

“His drugs are _really_ good,” Nod shrugs, following her. “Not that we can link it to him in any way, of course.”

 

“Of course,” she echoes, turning around and finding him right behind her. “You shouldn’t do that. One day I won’t realize it’s you, and then you’ll be sorry.”

 

“You honestly think you can hurt me?” Nod looks highly entertained. This irritates her.

 

“You think I can’t?” she counters, moving around him to get back to Poetry.

 

“Try it, come on,” he coaxes. He spreads his arms wide. “Look, I’ll even let you.”

 

“Oh, and get arrested for assaulting a police officer? No thanks.”

 

“Hey, I’m technically off-duty. It’s my lunch hour.”

 

“Yeah, no, not convinced.”

 

“Look, we don’t just arrest people for crap charges,” Nod says. Now _he_ sounds a little nettled. Serves him right. “We’re not the NYPD.”

 

“Thank goodness for that,” she mutters.

 

“So c’mon, hit me!”

 

“Is that one of your kinks? It’s not one of mine.”

 

“Well, on the subject of kinks...”

 

“Oh shut up.”

 

“You brought it up, not me,” he grins rakishly.

 

“Oh whatever,” she grouses. “Why are you, like, not eating on your lunch hour?”

 

“Well, I was wondering if I could eat with you.” He’s trying to be charming. She’s not buying it. She isn’t. “I brought my own lunch.”

 

“I’m not eating until later, and if you get crumbs on the books I will end you,” she says at last.

 

Nod beams. “Thanks!” He pulls up a stool— _her_ stool—and opens his brown bag (aww, he has—NO), taking out a sandwich. “So, Moonhaven—any strong feelings?”

 

“It’s a small town.”

 

“Well duh.”

 

“I don’t really like small town vibes. Also, I’m pretty sure the women in here earlier were trying to figure out if I’m casserole friendly.”

 

Nod bursts out laughing. At least he hasn’t taken a bite out of his sandwich yet. That could’ve been gross. “Oh, Mrs. Phlox and Mrs. Joy mean well. They can just be...oblivious. They were the leaders of the casserole brigade when my dad died.”

 

“I’m sorry about that,” MK says awkwardly.

 

Nod shrugs. “It was twelve years ago. Their friends will probably filter in over the course of the week, just to make sure that you’re okay, doing their neighborly duty and everything.”

 

“How much is known, exactly, about my mom’s death?”

 

“Well, she died, and she was murdered, but other than that, not much. People are dying of curiosity, but if Ronin knows anything, he’s not saying, and no one’s so crass—yet—to ask about how it happened.”

 

“Thank god,” MK murmurs. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

Nod looks at her carefully. “That’s cool.”

 

The bell over the door rings, and she instinctively turns towards it. “Hi, welcome to the Rings of Knowledge, I’m MK. Can I help you find anything today?

 

The person who entered is another woman with a little girl. “Oh, we’re just looking at some of the children’s literature,” the woman says with a smile. “Hello Nod.”

 

“Hey Mrs. Fleur. Hi Rose.”

 

“Hi Nod,” the little girl chirps. “I’m out of school!”

 

“That’s great, kiddo. How was your last day of school?”

 

“Fun, but I was ready for summer.”

 

“I bet,” Nod grins.

 

Rose looks up at MK. “You’re Mary Katherine, right?”

 

“I am,” MK says, kneeling down to meet her at eye level. “But I like being called MK.”

 

“My mom said your mom died. Is that true?”

 

“Rose!” Mrs. Fleur starts, her cheeks heating.

 

MK holds Rose’s eyes. “Yes, but there’s something that I learned from that.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“That your mom is one of the most important people in your life and you should be thankful for her every day.”

 

Rose smiles. “I know that, too!”

 

“Awesome,” MK holds her fist out, and Rose bumps it with her own. Rose flits back to her mother, and they wander down the children’s section. When MK turns back around, Nod’s got an eyebrow raised.

 

“You handled that well.”

 

“What, you think I’m about to yell at an eight-year-old?”

 

“Touché,” Nod murmurs. He crumples up his sandwich wrapper and puts it in his brown bag. “I need to get back. I’ll walk you home tonight, okay?”

 

“I--,” but too late, he’s already gone, and MK scowls at his back. He’s presuming an awful lot.

 

\--

 

“Sir?” Aisling knocks on the open door. Ronin gestures her in. While Aisling didn’t have any major injuries, she had a bad cut on her face, and today she’s wearing a sterile gauze pad over it. She closes the door behind her, perching on the edge of one of the chairs. “I wanted to apologize, for basing a raid on bad info. I should have known my source was being coerced.”

 

“So the Boggan John Doe _is_ your source?”

 

“Yes, he is. His name is Rovar Kukac, and he was in charge of organizing Zerfall’s legitimate shipments,” Aisling scowls. “Apparently Zerfall no longer liked his skill.”

 

“I don’t blame you, Aisling,” Ronin says quietly. “You had no way of knowing. He’d supplied perfectly legitimate information before, you had no way to know that he was being coerced to give you _this_ info.” He gets up, reaching for his jacket. “I’m going to go see Finn. You want to come?”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

On their way out, they pass Nod. “Late again?” Ronin asks.

 

Nod half-turns to answer, “No, just out on my lunch break.”

 

“Leave her alone,” Ronin orders.

 

“What? I’m not doing anything!” Nod calls after them, laughing.

 

Aisling looks at Ronin and he answers her unspoken question. “There’s a new girl he’s chasing.”

 

“ _He’s_ chasing a girl? They usually chase him.”

 

“Radcliffe’s daughter,” Ronin clarifies.

 

“Oh. Well, that makes sense.”

 

“Does everyone know that poor child’s life story?” he asks, exasperated as they get into the company car, an unmarked black sedan.

 

“Anna Kennedy was my Sunday School teacher when I was in high school,” Aisling replies, the barest hint of reproach in her tone. “She and I got along really well, and if there’s anything I knew about her, I knew she loved her daughter. You remember that I lost my mother to cancer two years ago?”

 

“Yes,” Ronin says begrudgingly.

 

“It’s worse if your mother’s murdered, sir.”

 

“Fair enough,” he grumbles. “I just wish people would stop talking about it. That girl’s going through enough.”

 

“I would never stoop so low, sir,” Aisling says stiffly.

 

“Oh, I know _you_ wouldn’t, but—I wish Nod would leave the girl be. She has enough troubles right now beyond him chasing her.”

 

Aisling says nothing as they pull into the parking lot of the hospital. Finn’s out of Critical Care, and according to the nurse, he should be home by Thursday. Once they get into his room and close the door, Finn puts aside his jello. “I’m sorry, boss.”

 

“For what?”

 

Finn gestures at his bandaged leg, outside of the blankets. “For getting shot.”

 

“That’s not something you should apologize for,” Ronin tells him firmly. “I’m just glad you didn’t die.”

 

Finn clears his throat and both men look away from each other. Finally, Finn says, “Aisling, can you take over the self-defense class tomorrow? I should be back by next week--.”

 

“You’re on light duty until you heal,” Ronin interjects. “Yes, you can be there, but sparring and demonstrations are out of the question until the doctors clear you.”

 

“Yes sir,” Finn grouses, and then he looks up at him. “I’m sorry about Robb.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“I didn’t see,” Aisling says apologetically.

 

“You were too busy making sure I wasn’t bleeding out,” Finn says, scratching the back of his neck. “You’re forgiven. Well, I’m sure you know that we knew it was going south the moment that one of the Boggans turned toward us and shot me. Aisling immediately called for an ambulance, but that turned into open gunfire between the DEA and the Boggans. It’s amazing there aren’t more dead, come to think of it. We had about five minutes worth of a firefight, and then the warehouse closest to the truck stop exploded, and the truck stop caught fire. That’s going to hurt us, Ronin.”

 

“Tara’s on it. She’s already found an interim location for trade while the truck stop’s rebuilt,” Ronin soothes. “Go on.”

 

“At that point I passed out,” Finn says, looking embarrassed.

 

“I went against protocol and dragged Finn free,” Aisling picks up. They’ve already gone over this, but Ronin doesn’t think Finn knows this. “The DEA got clear, and when the emergency responders got there, they took charge of Finn, the injured DEA agents, and the injured Boggans. They found Geddard this morning, after the rubble cooled and they were able to get dogs to search what’s left. He was killed by a gunshot, I think.”

 

“It seemed like an assassin’s bullet,” Ronin mutters, scrubbing his hand through his hair. “Shot in the forehead, right between the eyes.”

 

“The Boggans have _snipers_ now?”

 

“Possibly,” Ronin says. “But why kill Robb? He wasn’t a part of this.”

 

“Maybe as a warning to you, sir,” Aisling says slowly. “I know I work Vice, not Homicide, but you brought in the DEA because this was an international shipment. Maybe Zerfall’s trying to warn you off of bringing in anyone who isn’t from this town. This conflict’s between you two.”

 

“For the soul of this town,” Finn puts in. When they stare at him, he shrugs. “I mean, metaphorically. You fight for order, the law, and justice. He fights for chaos and decay—isn’t that what his drugs do? Whoever wins is going to change this town for at least a generation, since Mandrake’s been controlling this town for so long that no one can remember what it was like before him. If you change this, an entire generation of kids will grow up, not needing to fear him or the Boggans lurking in the shadows. That’s powerful.”

 

“Yes, you _were_ an English major,” Ronin says dryly, getting up and buttoning his jacket.

 

“I’m serious,” Finn protests.

 

“I know you are, and I hear you. Don’t bother your nurses too much.” He looks at Aisling. “Are you staying, or coming back with me?”

 

Aisling hesitates. Finn gestures her. “Go on. I’ll watch soaps and know exactly what’s going on, even if I’ve never watched them before.”

 

Aisling sighs, and follows Ronin out.

 

The rest of the day deals with dealing with the regional director of the DEA, and talking to the forensic scientists about what they’ve collected at the warehouses, and then he has to go home.

 

He’s dreading it.

 

Yet six o clock rolls around, he packs up his bag and heads for home. Nod’s still working, but he’s eyeing the clock, and Ronin stops at his desk. “Leave the girl alone,” he tells Nod, planting a hand on his desk and leaning in. “She’s going through enough right now.”

 

“Maybe I could be good for her,” Nod argues, but his heart isn’t into it. “Maybe she needs someone who doesn’t look at her and pity her for everything. Maybe she needs somebody who’ll tease her. Remember what you did for _me_ after my dad died?”

 

Ronin remembers. He took Nod to baseball games, helped plan birthday parties, and sponsored him for the annual Moonhaven police department pinewood derby—for five years in a row. In short, he tried to do everything Nod’s dad would have done. “You should respect her space. If she asks you to stop or leave her alone--.”

 

“I will,” Nod holds up his hands. “But she hasn’t asked me to. Say, you know John Donne?”

 

“Who?”

 

“A poet she likes. I don’t get it, but I thought maybe you might.”

 

“No,” Ronin says flatly. “But if it gets you to read...”

 

“Hey, I read! Just, not a lot.”

 

“Prefer being out-of-doors?”

 

“Well, yeah, but—were you quoting someone?”

 

“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid,” Ronin quotes, leaving Nod behind, crying, “Hey!”

 

He goes home. It takes about as long as expected during rush hour, and when he finally parks his car and enters his house, it is with a sense of impending doom.

 

Tara is waiting for him in the study, eyeglasses perched on the tip of her nose as she reads over something. Her brow is furrowed, and she’s already changed into her pajamas—they fit comfortably over her swollen stomach—with a green robe over them. Her hair is tied back in a loose knot, and she looks as beautiful as ever.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

Tara looks up at him. “Ronin! I thought you wouldn’t be home until late, just like last night.”

 

“Last night something came up,” he says quietly, putting aside his suit jacket and briefcase on the armchair near the door of the study.

 

“I am aware. I _did_ feel so much safer knowing Nod had a police-issued shotgun and was sitting on my porch.”

 

“The boy’s a good shot.”

 

Tara throws aside her papers and makes to stand up, but she’s stuck. She glares up at him instead. “That’s _not_ my problem, Ronin. The problem is that you sent your apprentice, who fails more tests than he passes, to guard me, when you weren’t even sure I was in danger. You didn’t come yourself. You didn’t send Finn or Arya or Jansen. You didn’t even bother to call to let me know you were all right. I had to find out from Nod what happened, and you and I only talked about in context of what immediately needs to be done to mitigate the situation this morning! You _lost a friend_ , Ronin, and you couldn’t even be bothered to tell me that! I had to find out from the news!”

 

“I didn’t want to stress you,” Ronin says honestly.

 

Tara makes a rude noise. “Oh, and I wouldn’t be stressed, walking into this situation blind this morning at the office?”

 

“I failed, Tara,” he says bleakly. “I should have known. It was too neat, not like Mandrake to make it this obvious. Saying it to you—saying it out loud—just compounds that. My failure cost me—cost _us_. I’ve lost credibility—necessary credibility—with the DEA. Finn’s in the hospital, and he won’t be on our active lists for weeks while he recovers. I couldn’t stand to have you look at me, knowing how much I’d failed.”

 

“Oh, Ronin,” Tara sighs, placing her hands in his. She squeezes them. “You made the right call, with the information you had on hand at the time. It was a blow—I won’t pretend it wasn’t—but it was a pyrrhic victory for Mandrake at best. We’ll be checking all shipments more closely, and the hoops to jump through at the interim location will be tighter than they were previously. You did not fail, my love, and you are not at fault for this. But I’m not just your wife, I’m your mayor, and these are things I need to know, and this is a burden you need to share. We’re married, for better or worse, remember?”

 

“Your pregnancy’s been difficult enough,” Ronin says quietly, kneeling down so he can press his forehead to hers. “Dr. Sayda said you were to avoid unnecessary stress. It could induce labor early.”

 

“How nice for her,” Tara groans, shaking her head. “Now, give me all the gossip. Is Aisling still desperately interested in Finn, and he oblivious?”

 

“They’re partners.”

 

“So?”

 

“I think you’ve invented this,” Ronin frowns.

 

Tara laughs, patting his arm. “Women always know. Help me up. I want food.”

 

“With an offer like that, how can I refuse?” He places his arms under hers, lifting her up in a hug. She leans in as he pulls up, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

 

“Take-out?” Tara offers. She breaks away to rub her stomach. “Baby wants Thai.”

 

“We could discuss baby names,” Ronin hedges.

 

Tara shakes her head at him, waddling towards the door, he close behind. “You didn’t answer my question. _Is_ Aisling still desperately in love with Finn?”

 

“I don’t know,” Ronin says, supporting Tara’s lower back as they walk into the hallway. “However, Nod is chasing the Radcliffe girl.”

 

“ _Nod_ is chasing someone? It _must_ be serious.”

 

“He wants to know if he can bring her with him on Sunday.”

 

Tara giggles. “Of course he can. I’d like to meet her, she who makes him finally chase someone. And it makes perfect sense that it would be Radcliffe’s girl. I want Pad Thai, fried rice, and vegetable spring rolls. Baby’s hungry. Go call.”

 

 “Yes m’lady,” he bows after getting her situated in her large dinner chair (specially adjusted on the good Doctor Sayda’s recommendation). He dials Thai Ruby, and places the order. Once that’s done, he rejoins his wife in the dining room. “They should be here in about twenty minutes. Why does it make sense that Nod’s chasing MK?”

 

“MK, huh,” Tara muses, leaning back carefully. “She’s new. She’s also recently suffered a tragedy, so Nod can be the bright shining knight. He rather likes that, if I recall.”

 

“I don’t think she appreciates that,” Ronin replies, thinking back on the girl from yesterday. “He brought her to the block party last night as an apology for ruining one of her shirts. He apparently met her by spilling his frappe over her shirt.”

 

“That’s _one_ way,” Tara’s eyes flick mischievously. “How did we meet again?”

 

Ronin reddens. “They’re a little young.”

 

“We were younger,” Tara points out, leaning her chin on her hand and wincing with the motion. “We do all right.”

 

“Correction: I don’t know if Nod is ready for that kind of thing.”

 

“He may surprise you,” Tara disagrees, leaning back. She’s rubbing her stomach in soothing circles, and when she sees his look, she sighs. “Baby has hiccups. She/He/They hate hiccups, and kick me after each one. Nod may tell me more than he does you, and I think he’s getting ready to settle down. Since his mom isn’t doing well, I think he wants to settle down so she can be at the wedding.”

 

“That’s not a good enough reason.”

 

“It is for him, though he obviously has personal taste as a stake in this decision. The question is, is Mary Katherine ready for that?”

 

“No,” Ronin says with certainty. “You may read Nod better than I do, but Nod can’t read her. She’s a survivor, with everything that entails. It wouldn’t surprise me if she has PTSD or something similar.”

 

“Thank you, Mister Health Care Professional.”

 

“She reads like a person with PTSD,” he tries to explain, knowing the words aren’t right but can’t find the right ones. “She doesn’t touch Nod, at all. He initiates everything. When they were standing together, there was a certain distance between them. And she’s—abrupt. She examines every place she’s in for potential escape routes.”

 

Tara blows a strand of hair out of her face. “In short, she sounds like an experienced cop.”

 

“Yes, exactly. I don’t know exactly what happened to her mother, and I don’t think I want to know, but—she may not be ready.”

 

“Her mother was killed by the Westchester Strangler,” Tara says quietly, watching him. “I liked Anna a great deal, and when she moved, she and I kept in infrequent contact.”

 

“You never told me that.”

 

“You never asked,” Tara says with a small smile. “When Anna died, I read up on the case. The Strangler—he did unspeakable things. It seems Mary Katherine’s intervention prevented some of the more unforgivable. The papers do not go into detail, thanks to the insistence of the families, but the trial’s due to begin the last week in July. I would expect Mary Katherine to attend the trial from its beginning to its end, since she’s a key witness for the prosecution.”

 

“So then the last thing she needs is Nod chasing her,” Ronin finishes, getting up to answer the doorbell.

 

“Oh, I disagree,” Tara says, and he turns to listen to her. “He may be exactly what she needs.”

 

\--

 

MK groans as she rolls over in bed. The start to another day. Maybe today Nod’ll give her some space. He walked her home yesterday (and yeah, okay, she laughs at the memory of Nod walking very quickly to keep up with her bike), but she feels a little...stifled at his constant presence.

 

She hasn’t had nightmares the past couple of nights, though. That’s a plus. Before they came to Moonhaven, she woke her dad up screaming every night—in her nightmares, she doesn’t stop the assailant from his attack on her mother. Instead, he makes her watch.

 

She hasn’t had that nightmare since she got here. Maybe there’s something to a different environment.

 

She’s got that self-defense class, but as she roots through her still-unpacked bags for her yoga pants and tank tops, she realizes how much she misses dancing.

 

It had been something Mom had put her into as soon as she was old enough to walk, and while she has a pretty thorough background in modern and jazz, ballet is her real love.

 

But it was something she and Mom did together. Could she really perform knowing Mom isn’t there?

 

She shoves that kind of thinking away for the moment. She doesn’t have to make that decision right now, and she won’t. She packs up the sweat-worthy clothes, and makes her lunch. She realizes she’s anxious right around the time she checks the clock for the tenth time, and that aggravates her, so she gets on her bike and heads for work.

 

Anxiety is clutched around her heart, making it hard to breathe. Thinking about her nightmares has brings them closer—every shadow hides her mother’s murderer, and her spine itches as she bikes past people, feeling watched. By the time she locks up the bike and goes inside the Rings of Knowledge, she’s gasping.

 

It’s pretty quiet. Thank _god_.

 

Nim says, “You’re early! Are you all right?”

 

MK holds up one finger as she clutches her stomach. “Biked—too fast.”

 

“No,” Nim says, shaking his head. He reaches out, and then retracts his hand. “Come on, over here. Head between your knees. Breathe. I’ll get you some water.”

 

“M’fine,” MK protests.

 

Nim doesn’t look like he believes her, but he vanishes into the office, and MK sits down on the free stool, holding onto the counter. She’s cold, and she can’t catch her breath. Her heart’s racing, and she _can’t breathe_.

 

There’s a warm palm on her upper back. “Breathe,” Nim soothes. “You’re going to be okay. You’re safe. You’re safe, Mary Katherine.”

 

MK breathes in deeply, holds it, and then lets it out. Rinse and repeat. She can gradually feel her heartbeat go back to normal, and she’s warm again. She hasn’t had one of those in the last few weeks. What triggered her?

 

“Are you okay now?” Nim asks, handing her a glass of water. She takes small sips.

 

“I think so.”

 

“What triggered the attack?”

 

“I don’t know,” MK frowns. “This morning, I was thinking about how I haven’t had nightmares since I came here. Maybe that’s it.”

 

Nim doesn’t say anything, but she’s learned quickly in the time that she’s known him that he can say volumes with his silence.  She sighs. “I don’t know. There wasn’t anything in particular that set me off.”

 

Nim nods. “Well, you’re here early, so I can skedaddle. The history museum’s having a plumbing problem,” MK winces, “and I need to be there for the plumber. Good luck! I’ll see you at closing!”

 

The day crawls by with brief interruptions by curious townsfolk (MK absolutely _hates_ being the new attraction), but this time, she’s prepared. She has a copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ , and in between dusting, sweeping, promoting, and selling, she reads it. She’s halfway through Vol 2 when she realizes Nod hasn’t come in to plague her. She checks the clock—it’s coming up on 4, and he hasn’t stopped in.

 

She’s not missing him or offended or anything. She’s grateful for the space.

 

She gets through Darcy’s first stumbling proposal, laughing at him the entire time, before she looks at the clock again. 5:30.

 

She’s not bothered. She’s not.

 

Nim shows up around 6:45, and she’s put up the copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ behind the counter with her bookmark. She’s already finished cleaning up, and she and Nim close the register together, and Nim goes over with her how to log the sales for the day. “Next week I’ll have you close up alone, but this can’t hurt.”

 

At 7:15, she heads to the police station, irritated for no reasonable reason. Nod’s playing some kind of game, she’s sure of it, and she refuses to be a participant.

 

The woman at the front desk helpfully directs her to the back, where the training room is. It’s already filled with women, talking, joking, and stretching. The relaxed atmosphere helps MK unwind, and one of the women (‘Pomme’) shows MK where the ladies’ is, and she changes quickly. By the time she’s done, with her hair braided back, the women have gathered in a loose clutch, facing a woman with light skin, a gauze pad taped to her cheek, and brown hair pulled back in a similar braid to MK’s. Her ‘Hello my name is’ tag reads Aisling, and MK realizes this is the Aisling who was on that raid two nights ago. There are some men around her, but mostly women, and they all wear tags.

 

“Welcome,” Aisling says coolly. “I know we all know most of each other here, but it’s been our habit to go around and introduce ourselves, so Sara, let’s start with you.”

 

MK half-listens as they go through the clutch, and when they get to her, she says ( _not_ awkwardly), “I’m MK Kennedy.”

 

Some of the women murmur sympathies, while others look at her with sadness. She stiffens in response, folding her arms. She’s the last one, and Aisling takes back over. “I’m Aisling Chêne. I’m standing in for Finn Sudder, who’s still recovering in the hospital. He asked me to share his thanks for all of the casseroles, he won’t have to eat the mold in his fridge for at least a week.” Laughter rolls through the group of women, and Aisling smiles slightly. “Pair up,” she instructs, “we’re going through the punch-kick combination we covered last week.”

 

MK hangs around awkwardly, watching the other women pair up. Aisling approaches her. “Ms. Kennedy, I notice you have no partner. I have no issue pairing up with you, if you have no objections.”

 

“No, I don’t,” MK says gratefully, “and it’s MK. Ms. Kennedy was my mom.”

 

“Very well. Do you have any sort of self-defense training?”

 

“Not really,” MK says, “but I do have background in dance.”

 

Aisling cracks a small smile at that. “I as well. I was in modern dance before I joined the Academy.”

 

“Ballet,” MK nods. “Though I do have training in modern and jazz.”

 

“All right,” Aisling instructs. “First, your stance should be strong enough that it should support you. Feet apart—it may help to have your feet pointing out. You want to keep yourself low to the ground, protecting your center of gravity. Your thumb should be outside of your fist, because if it is inside, you run the risk of breaking it should you fight someone. Hold your arms up to protect your core. Defend from your place of strength.”

 

She _likes_ that.

 

Over the next hour, Aisling shows her different punches and kicks (which are all easy to learn, it’s just tweaking already-existing muscle memory), and at the break, they’re assigned to teams of three and four, one instructor per team, and watched carefully as they then apply that knowledge. MK’s group consists of a soccer mom, a woman in her mid-twenties, and MK herself, and their group leader is a woman named Arya, who apparently works Forensics. She has a jaded look to her, but she treats them with a gruff affection that MK’s rather fond of.

 

Time flies, and before MK realizes it, the class is over. The women break into knots, and MK wipes her face and neck down as she watches them leave. She’s aware of a presence next to her, and she turns to see Arya and Aisling. “Hey, I’m about to go the Hummingbird Café for a late night muffin and coffee,” Arya tells her. “Want to come?”

 

“I should go tell Finn about how the class went,” Aisling hedges.

 

Arya rolls her eyes. “Oh please. That’s what tomorrow is for. Well, MK?”

 

“I don’t know...”

 

“We’ll make sure you get home safe,” Arya coaxes, “and you don’t know people yet. Between the two of us, we’ll introduce you to everyone worth knowing.”

 

“Nod’s already started a flirtation,” Aisling murmurs, tugging on a light sweater over her track pants and tank-top.

 

Arya rolls her eyes. “Everyone _worth knowing_ , Aisling.”

 

MK likes her already. “All right. It’s not like I have anything to do at home, anyway.”

 

“That’s the spirit,” Arya cheers, clapping her on the shoulder. In that instant, she turns from jaded officer of the law to sorority sister. It’s an abrupt change. “C’mon, they have the _best_ chocolate muffins and Irish coffees.”

 

“Not old enough to drink,” MK says as the three of them leave.

 

Arya winks. “Well, coffees in general then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because not everybody pays attention to various news scandals, Andrew Breitbart was a conservative blogger who made his living taking existing video of people associated with the Obama Administration and cutting/editing the video to make that person look like the scum of the earth. He was just making trouble, but his videos have gotten people fired, even after the truth comes out.
> 
> Also, before you ask, the NYPD has taken a *lot* of flack over quotas and 'stop and frisk.' Most major police forces in major cities have issues, and pretty bad issues at that. Before you start assuming my politics, there's plenty of statistics proving how harmful quotas and stop and frisk are, and not only that, they disproportionately affect people of color. So while police!aus are fun, I wanted to make it clear that just because the Leafmen are suddenly police persons doesn't mean that there aren't issues, or at least acknowledged issues.
> 
> Also, you can expect a lot of love for John Donne and Jane Austen. It is all a part of my master plan to get more people familiar with them. Muahahaha. *steeples fingers*


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is dedicated to the-leafwoman over on Tumblr as a pick me up. 
> 
> General warning for pregnancy and related pregnancy issues, including frequent trips to the privy. Warnings for woman-on-male violence, and panic attacks related to PTSD.
> 
> Soundtrack for this chapter: laura palmer (bastille), angel with a shotgun (the cab), who knows (natasha bedingfield)

**CHAPTER TWO**

“Ronin,” Tara says urgently. He wakes up immediately, turning towards her.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Braxton Hicks,” she groans. “And I have to pee.”

 

Ronin sits up, massaging her lower back with his knuckles. He can feel the knots and the false contractions (the first time she had Braxton Hicks, he did not keep his head at all well), until they recede.

 

“Bathroom,” Tara says, voice high. “ _Now_.”

 

He scrambles to her side, pulling her up carefully and stabilizes her as she waddles to the bathroom with all due speed. Once she’s seated on her throne, he sits on the side of the bathtub. It’s not worth crawling back into bed until she’s done. “We’re getting close,” he says softly. “Did you create a birth plan with Dr. Sayda?”

 

“That’s what we’re doing at the appointment tomorrow,” Tara yawns. “I know you’ve already contacted Moonhaven General, but if I can get away with it, I’d prefer natural birth with a doula.”

 

“Tara--.”

 

“I know, I know, my pregnancy is sufficiently high-risk that I need my OB/GYN there,” Tara grumbles, yawning halfway through. “But I don’t want a C-section, not if I don’t need it.”

 

“Fair enough. Are you ready?”

 

“Yes.”

 

With a heave, he pulls her up, and they waddle back to bed.

 

In the morning, Ronin yawns his way into work. KBTA-9 and Fox 47 have decided it’s no longer fun to camp out in wait for him; he appreciates this. Nod’s already seated at his desk (Ronin checks the time and then pinches himself to ensure he’s not dreaming), working through the stack of reports on his desk. Annalise isn’t in yet, but Aisling is, her head down on her desk. There’s a large coffee at her elbow.

 

“Aisling? What’s wrong?”

 

Her head shoots up so quickly he half-expects to hear it creak. “Chief! My apologies, I--.”

 

“It’s all right, it’s not even nine yet,” Ronin says warmly. “God knows I’m not awake yet.”

 

Aisling looks unhappy. “Arya decided to go out last night.”

 

“And?”

 

“She may have persuaded me to join her.”

 

“Did you have a good time?”

 

“Yes, but I’m tired,” Aisling grouses.

 

Ronin claps her on the shoulder. “You’ll feel better in a bit.”

 

“Yes sir,” Aisling says, reaching for her coffee as he enters his office. He leaves the door open, hanging up his suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves. His in-tray is stuffed full, and with a sigh, he starts to go through it, separating it by color tab. Yellow is Vice, red is Homicide, pink is Forensics, purple is Sex Crimes, and blue is Other.

 

He starts with Forensics. Maybe it’ll have something on Kukac’s death. ODing is too neat.

 

He gets caught up in a report about a domestic violence case and starts when a large cup of coffee from Hummingbird Café is put on his desk. He looks up at Arya, who’s grinning. “Sorry sir,” she says, not sounding at all sorry. “Brought you coffee—your favorite, hazelnut with a dash of vanilla.”

 

“It should disturb me that you remember that but—”

 

“Forensics,” they say together. Arya’s grin widens. “And besides, Annalise and I get along really well,” she tells him. “Muffin or bagel?”

 

“Bagel. Thank you.”

 

“No worries, Chief.”

 

He watches as Arya leaves a coffee and muffin for a frazzled Annalise, and then moves on to Nod. “Chocolate muffin for you, stud.”

 

Ronin’s ears prick up.

 

“What?” Nod asks, picking up the muffin.

 

“Your little game is paying off. She told me how irritated she was that you were playing her.”

 

“Who are we talking about?” Nod inquires, raising his eyebrows.

 

“Your latest conquest,” Arya says breezily, starting to move on.

 

“She is _not_ a conquest,” Nod snaps.

 

He seems to realize his mistake when Arya laughs. “Thank you for confirming it,” Arya sings, leaving a blueberry muffin for Aisling. Nod seems to swear at himself, before burying himself back in his reports.

 

Really, for a would-be detective he’s got no subtlety, Ronin despairs as he returns to the domestic violence case. Arya’s an incurable gossip, and if she doesn’t start running an inter-office pool as to when MK and Nod get together, Ronin doesn’t know her.

 

Wait. He frowns. MK _told_ Arya she was irritated with Nod last night? Oh right, Arya’s a volunteer with the Wednesday class. With that query settled, he allows himself to be absorbed into his work again.

 

\--

 

_‘”There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after a pause, “who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?”_

_‘The surprise of such an application was great indeed—’_

 

MK _jumps_ when the little bell over the door rings, banging her knee into the underside of the counter. She bites back a curse; three days at the bookshop have proven that literally anyone could walk through that door. “Hi, I’m MK, welcome to the Rings of Knowledge—oh it’s you.”

 

She doesn’t mean to let venom curl under her words, and Nod raises his eyebrows. “Hello to you too,” he says, holding up a bakery bag with the look of giving a sacrifice to a hostile god. “I’ve got fresh chocolate chip cookies or four blueberry scones. What’s your poison?”

 

MK sniffs. “Scones.” She _is_ reading Jane Austen ( _Pride and Prejudice,_ of course), she’s in the mood for British tea fare.

 

Nod places the bag on the counter (she makes out _Sassafras Ice Cream Shoppe_ before the bag crinkles), carefully lifting out two boxes. She fights with herself and loses, and she says, “Nim keeps water and iced tea in the back. What do you want?”

 

“Water, please,” Nod answers, opening the boxes and letting the scent of freshly baked goods waft in the air. Oh, it smells _so good_. She makes herself get off the stool and walk unsteadily to the back office. Delayed gratification, MK. It’ll taste better with anticipation.

 

By the time she gets back to the front, Nod has somehow found another chair and is sitting on her side of the counter. Her scones are neatly arrayed on a napkin, while his cookies are on another napkin, still steaming faintly. The blueberries in the scones glisten faintly, and she presses her lips together. Slow bites, MK. Just because you haven’t had scones since January doesn’t mean that you should eat these in one bite each.  She hands Nod a chilled bottle of water, and he lets his fingers brush against hers as he takes it. She sits down, fumbling with the cap of her own water bottle. “Can I help?” Nod asks, twisting his off with ease.

 

“No,” MK says shortly, drying the cap and twisting it off more easily. Nod holds up his hands, and his eyes are laughing at her. “So why the spread?”

 

“A wolf told me that I upset you,” Nod says easily, biting into a cookie. MK’s mouth dries as she watches him. She can _see_ the choco—no, MK, _scones_.

 

She tears her eyes away, picking up a scone. The blueberries leave the slightest stain on her fingertips, but she ignores it. “Given your police department symbol, I’m surprised you didn’t go with bird,” she remarks, “and who told you that you upset me?”

 

She bites off a corner of the scone, and licks the corners of her mouth to make sure there aren’t any crumbs. It’s Nod’s turn to clear his throat and avert his eyes, and he swallows a sip of water before answering. “This mutual friend would not take well to being called a bird,” he says dryly. “She’s a wolf, through and through. And as for yesterday, Wednesdays are one of my days off, and I help my mom with stuff around the house. Yesterday I needed to fix a busted water pipe, and that ended up taking most of the day.” He grins. “Did you miss me?”

 

“Oh please,” she scoffs, taking another bite of scone. They really are very good. “I got some good personal time with Jane.”

 

“Jane?” Nod’s eyebrows raise with interest.

 

MK slides her book over to him. “ _Austen_ , you perv. I haven’t read Jane since before...well, I needed to laugh at Mr. Collins again.”

 

“Do you read anything that was published in the last century?” Nod complains, but there’s the light of humor in his eyes.

 

“Oh yeah,” MK pretends offense. “Barbara Kingsolver and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.”

 

“Oh right,” Nod scoffs right back, leaning back slightly, picking up another cookie. “What do you read for fun?”

 

“You act like I _don’t_ read them for fun,” MK pouts, watching him bite into his cookie. It’s such an exaggerated movement, she _knows_ he’s doing it for her benefit. “Jane’s one of my favorite authors.”

 

“So you read girly books,” Nod observes, licking his lips for the last of the cookie crumbs.

 

“Jane is _not_ girly,” MK snaps reflexively, “and what’s wrong with girly, anyway?”

 

“There’s no _action_ ,” Nod explains.

 

“If you’re looking for explosions and rocket ships, well yes, Jane doesn’t have those. But she _does_ have action. It’s usually not violent. Like, okay, for example, in this, Lizzie Bennet’s sister, Lydia, runs away with Wickham, an officer, to Gretna Green.”

 

“So?”

 

MK rolls her eyes. “Lydia’s actions could have ruined the family,” she explains, “because no man would have married a woman whose sister had eloped, without the blessing of the father. For context, Lydia has four sisters and no brothers. The next heir is a frankly ridiculous cousin, and he wouldn’t hesitate to throw out Mrs. Bennet and her daughters once Mr. Bennet died.”

 

“Oh,” Nod says in a tone of dawning comprehension. “I get it. So, _did_ her actions ruin the family?”

 

“No, but it came very close.”

 

“Is that your favorite Austen?”

 

MK considers. “I _do_ love it,” she thinks out loud, “but I also love _Mansfield Park_ , which is not necessarily a favorite in Janeite circles, but my favorite is probably _Persuasion_. It was my mom’s favorite, and when I was younger, she read it out loud to me,” she smiles, “and when I read it, I can still hear her voice, reading it to me.”

 

“Your mom read you Jane Austen?”

 

“And _Jane Eyre_ and _Frankenstein_ and _Anne of Green Gables_ ,” MK returns with a small laugh. “She believed in the power of classic literature written by our literary foremothers. I did draw the line at Virginia Woolf, though. Woman can _ramble_.”

 

“I wouldn’t know,” Nod murmurs, stealing one of her scones. She steals a cookie in return, swallowing her bite of scone in favor of a bite of cookie. “I liked Harry Potter, but I think those were the last books I read for pleasure.” He shrugs.

 

She clucks her tongue at him. “If you’re apparently going to visit me everyday in a bookstore, I’ll need to pull a reading list for you.”

 

“Oh god,” Nod whines pathetically, covering his face with his free hand. He peeks at her through his fingers. “Why not be an English major, if you love books so much?”

 

MK traces the wood grain on the counter. “My mom was an editor at Random House—did I tell you that? It was her field, but she taught the love to me. It was something--.”

 

“You shared,” Nod finishes. He finishes his bite of scone, dusting off his hands. “Yeah, I get that. My dad and me—it was hiking. There are some good trails around here, and he would pack a lunch and then we’d go off for the day. My mom would get some time to herself, and I spent time with my dad. He was an amateur nature photographer when he wasn’t on duty, and we have this local herd of deer—they got to know him so well that when he went out there with his camera, they wouldn’t run away.”

 

“He must have been very gentle,” MK observes, squeezing his hand.

 

In one smooth movement, Nod turns his hand over and tangles their fingers together. He squeezes before letting go. “He was. I have to get back to work, but tonight—dinner?”

 

She blinks. “Are you asking me out?”

 

Nod rolls his eyes. “Yes.”

 

The last time MK was on a date was for prom, and it had been with a boy from her AP English Lit class. They were friendly, both dateless, and went as friends. It was happy enough, and they had a good time, but there was definitely a mutual feeling of relief at the end of the evening when they could part ways. And no guy has ever been so intent on her company the way Nod is. It’s a little...uncomfortable, actually.

 

 _You can always say no_.

 

It’s the safe thing. She’s still getting over her mom’s mur—death, and the house isn’t so bad, not really, even though it rings more of machines than people.

 

She can say no.

 

MK screws up her courage, and looks up at Nod. “Yes.”

 

\--

 

When Nod walks in, a spring to his step and a twinkle in his eye, Ronin gestures to Aisling, who stands up, and they walk up to Nod. “C’mon,” Ronin tells Nod, grabbing Nod’s tie and dragging him along.

 

“Hey, I can walk on my own—where are we going, anyway?”

 

“We’re going to see Finn,” Aisling says coolly, “We are ostensibly going to be helping him home, but in actuality,--.”

 

“We’re plotting,” Nod beams. “Ronin, you can let go now.”

 

Ronin grunts but does so, unlocking his car. Aisling slides into the front seat and Nod gets into the back. “So why are we plotting on the road?” Nod asks, “And why am I involved?”

 

“Since you decided you’d rather join street-racing, instead of shutting it down,” Ronin says waspishly. He’s tired, and the boy’s insubordination is getting old. “You have an opportunity here, and we’re plotting on the road because that way Finn can be involved.”

 

“Ah, gotcha.”

 

The ride to the hospital is not a long one, but it is silent, uncharacteristically so, because Nod does not usually hesitate to fill the air with chatter. Aisling is not a chatterer, but she usually has _something_ to say. Ronin glances at her from the corner of his eye—her face is pale and set as she looks out the window, and he wonders what she’s thinking about.

 

He doesn’t actually believe she’s in love with Finn, despite what Tara says. Aisling is incredibly professional, and her concern for Finn is similar to the concern he sees among other partners when one is ill or injured.

 

He glances at his godson in the rearview mirror. Nod too looks lost in thought, but there’s a small, happy curl to his lips. Something good must have happened today, then.

 

He parks the car near the front entrance. No reason to push the standard exit wheelchair more than it needs to be.

 

Finn’s raring to go, if the nurse’s little exasperated sigh when she sees them is any indicator. When they enter his hospital room, he’s already in the wheelchair in civvies, with his overnight bag in his lap. “Where have you been?” Finn demands. “You left me to the harpies.”

 

“Well, here we are now,” Nod offers, hooking his thumbs in his belt-loops. “Your suffering is over.”

 

Finn squints at him. “Someone’s happy. Did you finally get laid?”

 

“I think it’s time to go,” Ronin slides in, before Nod can do something horrifying like respond. “Do I need to sign anything?”

 

“Nope,” Finn grunts. “All discharge paperwork is done.”

 

“Very well,” Ronin says, grasping the wheelchair’s handles and pushing Finn from the room. Finn looks up at Aisling as he passes her.

 

“So how did the class go?”

 

“Fairly well. Martha Dogwood did not join us last night, but MK Kennedy did.”

 

“What do you think of her?” Finn inquires, ignoring Nod.

 

Aisling, as always, uses words wisely. “I am impressed by her drive and her physical state,” she says slowly, “but I wonder if she took this class for selfish reasons.”

 

“As opposed to purely altruistic ones, like dressing up at night and fighting crime,” Finn remarks.

 

Aisling’s flush is dull, but it’s there. “I merely meant it seems like she could be vengeance-motivated,” she says coolly. “Other than that, I—”

 

“Yes?” Finn looks up at her.

 

Aisling’s flush deepens. “I believe I like her.”

 

“How unlike you,” Finn teases, “to like someone after barely meeting them.” When Aisling makes no reply, Finn frowns. “You spent more time with her than the class dictated,” he accuses.

 

Ronin sees Nod’s head jerk up.

 

“Arya may have roped the two of us into joining her for a late dinner at the Hummingbird Café,” Aisling says carefully.

 

“That makes more sense,” Finn agrees.

 

“Did she say anything interesting?” Nod buts in.

 

“Oh yes,” Aisling agrees, but there’s suddenly a twinkle in her eyes that gives away she’s teasing Nod. Nod, however, is oblivious. Ronin and Finn are not. Finn starts to grin, covering it with his hand. “She has some definitive opinions.”

 

“Oh?” Nod’s anticipation is palpable.

 

“She found the crème brulee to be much more agreeable than the chocolate mousse.” Aisling’s eyes spark.

 

“Nothing else she has definite opinions on?” Nod says hopefully.

 

“Oh look here’s the car,” Finn says cheerfully. “Am I banished to the back seat?”

 

“Of course,” Ronin tells him. Nod pouts, but doesn’t open the conversation again, something Ronin is grateful for. They spend too much time discussing young Miss Kennedy.

 

“All right, so what’s really going on?” Finn says once they’re in the car with the doors shut. Ronin backs the car out, heading for Finn’s home.

 

“I’ve had Marissa Brown detained, but she lawyered up immediately and we haven’t gotten anything from her,” Ronin explains, sliding into late afternoon rush hour traffic. “Kukac’s official COD is drug overdose of raw cocaine, but there were traces of truth serum and adrenaline in his bloodstream at time of death.”

 

“You think he was tortured?” Finn says.

 

“There were no injuries on the body to indicate as such,” Aisling answers, “however, there are drugs that would heighten sensation, and you must test specifically for them or send samples to the FBI forensic labs, and expect results in six weeks, if that.”

 

“He _was_ drugged, but since we have no information from Brown, and we do have a complaint on file from Kukac’s girlfriend about a domestic disturbance that took place two weeks before his death—he got into an argument with a man on his floor. The man’s former military, Patrick Rhys, and we’ve already pulled him in for questioning,” Ronin adds. “Due to injury, he has an addiction to morphine, and has been a suspect in a few hospital robberies. Since he has a record, the DA will look over the case.”

 

“Would Rhys confess?”

 

Ronin looks at Aisling, who answers. “Perhaps, with strong enough motivation,” she says slowly, “but there is no strong forensics evidence to point to him.”

 

“There doesn’t always need to be,” Nod mutters, “West Memphis Three, anyone?”

 

“We are not doing that here,” Ronin says flatly.

 

“Still, if Rhys confesses...why would he?”

 

“He gets his morphine from somewhere,” Aisling says bitterly. “The robberies were small, and there was a considerable length of time between each. There were not other discovered robberies in the interim.”

 

“Hm,” Finn muses. “If we could get Rhys to turn...say, Aisling, want to try your feminine charms on him?”

 

“Actually, I was thinking of getting Nod and Aisling to play Good Cop, Bad Cop with him,” Ronin says, startling both Nod and Aisling. “There’s enough in Rhys’ known history to place him at odds with women in general, let alone women in authority.”

 

Finn frowns. Ronin can see it in the rearview mirror. “Was he discharged due to injury?”

 

“Not entirely,” Ronin says, nodding at Finn. “He allegedly harassed civilian women on the base he was stationed at in Japan, and when it was taken to his superior, he insulted her. He _was_ injured, but not in the line of duty, and he was dishonorably discharged in ’08.”

 

“And the robberies?”

 

“June ’09, August ’10,” Aisling recites, “and the amounts stolen were perhaps two to three vials of 100 ccs each. The nurse who ID’d him was, surprise, Marissa Brown.”

 

“If he was suspected, why was he never charged?”

 

“No forensic evidence tied him to the crime except Brown’s eyewitness account,” Ronin says tersely, signaling before moving over into the right lane. “Given that eyewitness accounts are subject to change, the DA didn’t feel it was strong enough to charge him.”

 

“The alleged harassment—was it verbal or physical?”

 

“Both,” Ronin says, turning on the signal as he pulls to a stop at a red light. Finn’s home is in Stone Trees, a housing development in southern Moonhaven. “However, he has no history of physical violence with men, only with women, so given that kind of background, it seems incredibly unlikely that he would have killed Kukac.”

 

“Except that the official COD was overdose,” Aisling returns, “which is a fairly nonviolent way to murder someone.”

 

“Or maybe Kukac just OD’d,” Nod offers, “I mean, allegedly. Was he an addict?”

 

“Not to cocaine,” Aisling replies. Her voice lowers with discomfort, and likely no small amount of disgust, “He was a sex addict.”

 

“Oh,” Nod says, eyes wide. “So it’s definitely murder, then. If we’re going with Rhys being pushed into the murder, where did he get the drugs to dose Kukac with?”

 

Aisling and Ronin look at each other.

 

“Either way, the Boggans are going to be implicated,” Nod goes on, gesturing wildly as he warms to the subject, “so unless Mandrake’s willing to throw another one of his people under the bus after _killing_ one, he’s still going to face issues with this.”

 

“If he does choose to do so,” Finn observes quietly, “it will have to be one that’s a bit higher in rank than your average Boggan. He doesn’t trust just anyone to deal. Out of all of the Boggan lieutenants, who do you think Mandrake can afford to lose?”

 

Ronin parks in Finn’s driveway. “I can pull up the files of his suspected lieutenants once we get you settled,” Ronin tells Finn, unlocking the doors and he and Nod help Finn into the house. Aisling follows with Finn’s bag. “Let’s see what we can figure out.”

 

\--

 

It’s nearing 7:20 by the time she and Nim have finished everything. The floors are swept, the books in good order, the sales for the day logged, the back office is clean (or mostly clean), and the trash has been taken out. Nim leaves first, mentioning something about a liaison, leaving MK to lock up.

 

Moonhaven takes on a different look when night starts to fall, she observes, leaning on the door a little so that the lock will stick. The children stop running around (not that she hates kids, but kids running around, screaming and stuff, would wear on the best people).

 

It’s not that Moonhaven is _sinister_ , she decides, jiggling the key. The door’s being stubborn. Just—the lights are different, and the older (read: senior) adults and the children melt away, and the young adults to the middle-aged adults are the ones who populate Moonhaven.

 

She turns back to the door, finally getting it to cooperate. As she starts to pull back the key, a pair of hands covers her eyes, and from the line of warmth down her back and over her head, whoever’s doing it is tall.

 

She jerks her elbow back into where she thinks the diaphragm would be, and her scalp is bathed in the explosion of breath from the person behind her, and then she half-turns, so that her foot is between theirs, and she jerks her left knee up into the groin.

 

Nod’s hands fall from her eyes as he falls to his knees, groaning. MK stares, before feeling a prickly blush crawl up her neck. “Are you okay?”

 

“You warned me,” Nod chokes out, “and I was an idiot and didn’t listen. Won’t do that again. Sorry.”

 

“Oh my god, come in, we’ll get you some ice or something,” the lock opens with ease, something she hates it for, helping Nod into the bookshop. The way he’s staggering makes her feel guilty, and she maneuvers him onto the stool before she disappears into the office to get ice from the fridge/freezer. When she returns, offering it to Nod, he with absolutely no preamble he takes it and presses it to his groin. “So, are we even?” he smiles, tossing his head with the cockiness she _hates_. She likes him when he’s genuine. When he’s cocky she wants to shove him off the stool.

 

“What?” she asks, lifting herself onto the counter and crossing her legs.

 

“Well, I started this by spilling my frappe over your shirt,” Nod explains, leaning on the counter with his left arm. “Now I’ve got ice in my special place because I startled you. Are we even? Can we progress on even footing from here?”

 

MK rolls her eyes. “Are we progressing?”

 

“Well, we’re going to dinner,” Nod’s eyes twinkle.

 

“Are—can you walk?”

 

“Sure, just give me a minute,” Nod says cheerfully. “So, did you guys do okay today?”

 

“Yeah,” MK says, leaning back on her palms, glancing over the bookshop. She feels Nod’s fingers dance over her knee, and when she looks back at him, he meets her eyes innocently. “We did okay, but I see what Nim meant when he said that we sell children’s lit—what are you _doing_?”

 

“Nothing,” Nod raises a brow, smiling slightly.

 

“He said we sell children’s lit and gardening-slash-cooking aids,” heat spreads up her neck as Nod traces his fingertips over her knee and lower thigh, and she squirms slightly but she’s determined to continue. Nod’s just looking at her, apparently interested and he doesn’t look at all smug from what he’s doing. “We’ve sold more cookbooks than adult lit this week, and—what are you doing?”

 

“Nothing,” Nod insists, his smile widening slightly.

 

“Stop it,” she tells him, a little rattled. She’s not used to having this kind of reaction to flirting. It’s uncomfortable.

 

“All right, I think I can walk now. That was really good, by the way,” Nod compliments, “and I won’t doubt your skills again.” He stands up. “Can I put the ice in the sink?”

 

“I’d better do that,” MK unfolds her legs, and Nod offers his hand to help her jump off the counter.

 

She sears him with a glance, jumping off without his help. She takes his proffered ice pack, going back into the office to take care of it. Nod doesn’t follow her, and she wonders if she expected him to, and if she’s disappointed that he didn’t.

 

Once that’s taken care of, she dries her hands and heads back into the bookshop, “So where are we going?”

 

Nod smiles, and does the boy ever _stop_ smiling? “The art museum has a small restaurant attached to it. The food’s good.”

 

“Shall we go, then?” she says with a raised brow.

 

“After you,” Nod gestures, letting her exit before him. He’s within arm’s reach as she locks the door (easier this time—I’m onto you, door), but not so close she feels crowded. Once she tucks her keys into her pocket, Nod offers his arm.

 

Since he’s offering but not taking, she takes his arm.

 

He’s out of his uniform, in jeans, a green t-shirt, and short boots, and since she’s only ever seen him in his uniform, she’s not entirely sure what to make of the change. The green t-shirt clings to him, and she looks away quickly when she realizes she’s staring.

 

Nod doesn’t seem to have noticed as he goes on about the delights of the art museum’s restaurant. Thank _god_.

 

They turn a corner, and Nod tucks her hand, previously on his forearm, into the curve of his elbow. This area behind the Rings of Knowledge has Moonhaven Bar and Grille, along with the back entrance to the Hummingbird Café. Beyond the parking lot for Moonhaven Bar and Grille, she sees Moonhaven Museum of Art. She didn’t even know it was there. “This is the artsy side of Moonhaven,” Nod says when he sees her wide-eyed look. “Beyond the Moonhaven Bar and Grille is the art district, which has the places where you can find stuff for stamping and stuff.”

 

“Like embroidery stuff?” she asks. She brought two hoops with her, but her embroidery silks are getting low, because she embroidered nonstop for the two weeks after her mother’s mur—death. While she hasn’t picked up a needle and silk since the arraignment, she might want to later, during the trial.

 

“Yeah,” Nod shrugs. “The art district ends up bleeding into the trading district, which I don’t fully understand, but hey, whatever.”

 

“Trading district—the warehouses?”

 

Nod glances at her. “Yeah.”

 

“Okay.” That answers that question. She drums her right hand on her thigh. “So what’s on the other side of Main Street?”

 

“The hospital and associated rehabilitation facility, the fashion district, and then it turns into housing,” Nod’s face twists. “Why we call them _districts_ when they’re a couple of streets at best...”

 

“Welcome to small towns,” MK replies.

 

Nod laughs. “You’re really not a fan of small towns, are you?”

 

“Everyone knows everyone else’s business,” MK says. Her voice dips flat, and she tries to moderate it with limited success, “I prefer to keep my business my own.”

 

“So what was Westchester like?” Nod wants to know. “I haven’t been outside of Connecticut.”

 

“I attended a dance school there,” MK says quietly as they approach the little restaurant. Every so often, someone opens the door and jazz music spills out. The lighting is a little dark and avant-garde, but she thinks she likes it. “We had a little bit of everything, and what we didn’t have we could take a train to the city for. My mom and I went to a lot of Broadway performances, and the Met, and the Museum of Natural History.”

 

“So this must be a change,” Nod comments, before turning to the maître d’.  “Two.”

 

“Does it matter where you sit?” the maître d’ says smoothly, picking up two menus. MK admires the slide of her fingers against the menus—they’re a pianist’s fingers.

 

“Somewhere quiet,” Nod tells her, reaching for MK’s now-free hand and tucking it back into the curve of his elbow.

 

The maître d’ inclines her head, gesturing for them to follow her. They end up at a small table in the corner, with a lit candle in a red holder at the center. “Someone should be with you shortly,” the maître d’ says, “Enjoy your meal.”

 

From the look of the menu, it’s a slightly eclectic mix of Western European and American foods. There’s a lemon-grilled fish that looks excellent, and a chocolate cream torte that looks absolutely sinful. The prices aren’t too bad, either, and she double-checks to make sure she has her wallet.

 

“The baked chicken is great,” Nod tells her, “but it is a little messy.”

 

“What about the lemon-grilled tilapia?”

 

“It’s good,” he answers, wrinkling his nose, “even if I don’t care for fish.”

 

“What? You live in New England, how can you _not_ like fish?”

 

“I like shellfish,” he protests, but there’s a smile on the corners of his mouth. She feels her heart stutter for a moment, and it’s annoying. She’s not even that attracted to him. “Lobster and shrimp’s great, I just hate the texture of fish.”

 

“You’re obviously not eating the right fish,” she sniffs, but she can feel a smile of her own coming.

 

“What would you recommend?”

 

“Tilapia’s obviously a good start,” MK tells him conspiratorially, leaning in. “It’s a pretty mild fish. My personal favorite is mahi-mahi, a tropical fish that has the texture of steak when it’s cooked correctly.”

 

“I do like steak,” Nod murmurs, his eyes wicked. “The way it melts in your mouth...”

 

MK swallows but is saved from responding by the appearance of the waitress, wearing black pants, a black button-down with a white bow-tie. “Hello, welcome. I’m Anne. Can I interest you in our specials tonight?”

 

“Sure, thank you,” Nod says, looking at MK.

 

MK’s still having trouble swallowing, but not because of Nod. Anne— _Anna’s a different name, two syllables, not one, c’mon MK, you’re ok._ She manages a smile for the waitress as Anne lists off the dinner specials (none of which are appealing now that she’s looking forward to lemon-grilled tilapia), and when she’s done, she says, “Can I get your drink orders?”

 

“Diet coke,” Nod says, nodding at MK.

 

“Coke with lemon,” she tacks on.

 

Anne smiles. “I’ll be right back.”

 

“Are you okay?” Nod asks once she’s gone. He reaches his hand out, and after a moment of hesitation, takes her hand, placing his thumb against her pulse. She lets him.

 

“I’m fine,” MK says quietly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

Nod rolls his eyes.

 

“I wish people would stop looking at me like I’m a victim,” she says, frustrated. “My mom was—she died. It happened. Stuff like that happens every day.”

 

“Except most people who lose their mom don’t lose her to murder,” Nod observes.

 

MK flinches before she can hide it. “Well, yeah, but—I’m not a victim,” she fumbles, “and I wish people would stop— _pussyfooting_ around me, like I’m about to explode or something.”

 

“I don’t know. It could be fun to watch you explode,” Nod comments, switching off concern and switching on lewd. She can handle the shift, and she’s even grateful for it.

 

“Ugh, mind out of gutter, please.”

 

“Where would you like it?”

 

“Are you ready to order, then?” Anne appears again, placing their drinks down.

 

“I’ll take the lemon-grilled tilapia,” MK hands Anne her menu.

 

“I’ll take the roasted chicken and squash,” Nod tells Anne.

 

“Is this one check?” Anne asks, and before MK can answer with something like ‘No’ or ‘yes, I’m paying’ (Nod brought her scones. It’s only fair), Nod answers, “Yes.”

 

Anne smiles and disappears.

 

“You know I can take care of the bill, right?” MK asks him.

 

“My mother taught me that whoever does the asking does the paying,” Nod shrugs. “You can take care of next time.”

 

“What makes you think there’s going to be a next time?”

 

Nod laughs. “Oh please. You’re totally charmed by me,” he teases.

 

“I am not,” but she can feel laughter bubbling up, and her cheeks are heating.

 

“Then why are you blushing?”

 

“I’m not,” MK lies, but her lips keep threatening to break into a smile.

 

“Liar, liar,” Nod sing-songs.

 

At least he doesn’t sing the _rest_ of the ditty. She can only imagine what he would do with it. Instead, she changes the subject. “What’s your mom like?”

 

“She teaches second grade, and has all of the patience that grade requires,” Nod tells her, becoming genuine again. How can she get a read on him when he switches so quickly? “She and my dad met when he was in the Academy and she was in college getting her teacher’s certificate. They married six months later.”

 

MK raises her eyebrows.  “That’s quick.”

 

“Small town,” Nod contradicts, echoing her earlier sentiments. “It was a happy marriage, at least from what she’s told me and what I remember. My mom fed—feeds—all of the neighborhood kids and my dad ran the local soccer team.  After he died, she became—sad isn’t the right word, although I know she was. She became more quiet, that’s it, and while she still worked in the community, there was more distance, and she never attended a police-sponsored event after my dad’s funeral. The first time she did was when I graduated the Academy.

 

“She has a deep love of crows, and is constantly feeding them and fixing their broken wings. When I was younger, I thought it was weird, but now she has a semi-permanent crowd of crows around her house, and the last time someone tried to break in, the crows dive-bombed him until he went away. He was easy to arrest, since he had beak marks all over his face,” Nod grins. “Best security ever.”

 

“You told me you and your dad went hiking. Do you and your mom have something similar?” MK traces a fork, not wanting to look up at him.

 

“I fix her house,” Nod shrugs. “I learned how to be handy when I was little, and there’s always something. This week, I’m probably fixing window panes.”

 

“You must be really close.”

 

“Oh yeah,” Nod replies. He laces his fingers with hers, and she meets his gaze. There’s something deeper in it, and it makes her stomach knot. “For a while, it was just me and my mom against the world, you know?”

 

The words slam into her like a ton of bricks, and suddenly the walls of the restaurant are way too close. Her heart’s pounding in her ears, and she needs to get out of here. She rips her hand from Nod’s hold, standing up and making her chair scrape on the stone floor. “I—I--.”

 

“MK? You all right?”

 

“I need to leave,” she chokes out, turning on her heel and running out the door. The cold air of the late June night hits her in the face, and she gets a good distance away before she stops, her chest burning. She puts a hand to the brick wall to hold herself up, cradling her face in her other hand as she tries to breathe. Her heart’s slowing down but her cheeks are wet, and—this is so much harder than she wants it to be.

 

Her mother hasn’t even been dead a _month_. It’ll be a month next week. How can she—what can she—

 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Nod’s a solid presence behind her, and she can’t figure out if she’s glad or not he found her. He puts a hand on her upper back, and the other on her arm. “Did I say something?”

 

It would be so easy to lean into him and the comfort that he’s offering. She just doesn’t know if she deserves it. “M’fine,” she finally gasps out.

 

Nod shakes his head. “Come here.” He pulls her to him, tucking her head into his shoulder. “It’s okay to be sad and angry, you know. I’ve been where you are.”

 

She doesn’t trust herself to speak, and Nod’s hold may be loose, but she still feels caged. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Nod promises, as though he can hear her thoughts. His hands spasm on her shoulder and lower back, like he wants to tug her closer but resists.

 

It’s the resistance that does it, and she relaxes into him, burying her face in the cotton of his t-shirt while her arms circle his back. He is, she realizes with a start, the first person she’s voluntarily hugged since this whole thing happened. Dad hugged her when he got there, but she froze up and had a panic attack, and he hasn’t touched her since. At the funeral, everyone carefully kept their distance because there wasn’t enough make-up to hide the bruising. She hasn’t willingly embraced someone since—

 

She forces herself to complete the thought. Since her mother.

 

“I thought I told you what we would do to you if you were out here alone again, Nod.” The voice comes from behind her, and Nod stiffens. He lets go of her, not too subtly putting himself between her and the speaker.

 

The speaker looks to be a middle-aged man, arms crossed. His suit is _great_ , a deep blue with a crisp white shirt and a simple gold necklace. There are two big, burly guys at his shoulders cracking their knuckles.

 

“And putting the moves on a grieving girl? For shame, Nod,” the man continues.

 

“I think I can answer for myself whether that’s shameful or not,” MK says coolly.

 

Nod shakes his head once at her. “I’m not here to interfere with your business, Bufo.”

 

“No, you’re just here alone with a girl that I’m guessing no one knows where she is.”

 

MK suddenly wants to laugh. In a weird, sideways way, this person is looking out for her safety. She really _is_ in a small town. “We’re totally fine! He’s not hurting me or anything.”

 

“MK,” Nod hisses, but Bufo’s arms are unfolding.

 

“Get out of here, and I’ll forget I saw you,” Bufo says cuttingly.

 

“Yeah, Nod, let’s go,” MK squeaks, grabbing his wrist and pulling slightly. Nod lets himself be pulled, and once they’re out of the trading district (MK honestly had no clue she ran that far), they slow down. She looks up at him. “So, Bufo?”

 

“He runs illegal street-racing. I may have taken part in it.”

 

“You’re a bad police officer,” she scolds.

 

“I was supposed to lose. I didn’t. I lost Bufo a lot of money that night, and he’s made it clear that I’m not welcome in his territory when I’m off duty. What I’m trying to figure out is why he cared so much about _you_.”

 

“Small towns,” she reminds him.

 

He laughs and wraps an arm around her shoulders. “I guess so.”

 

He drops her off at home with a chaste kiss to the cheek, and she heads up to bed, exhausted and not really hungry.

 

She wakes up at 2 AM, shuddering from another nightmare, but she can’t go back to sleep, so she digs out her embroidery and stitches the calla lily pillowcase until the sun comes up.

 

\--

 

Friday goes by fairly quickly. Finn is looking through all of the files of known Boggans at his home, trying to figure out which Boggan Mandrake’s willing to lose, and Aisling is working amongst her contacts, trying to hear the ripples. Marissa Brown and her lawyer have agreed for a meeting Monday morning, something that burns Ronin but he knows he needs to roll with this if he wants to get any kind of result.

 

Nod goes out at two and comes back at three, looking very pleased with himself. “MK’s definitely coming for Sunday lunch,” he tells Ronin, body half in the doorway of his office and half out of it.

 

“So you _did_ convince someone to date you,” he says absently, sorting out the weekly reports (they never end).

 

“We’ll be there around 11:30,” Nod says with a tone of voice that means he’s glaring at Ronin. Ronin looks up to verify, and yes, Nod is indeed glaring at him. He looks at his godson over the rims of his reading glasses. “We’ll see you then.”

 

“Bring dessert,” Ronin orders.

 

“Yes sir,” Nod salutes ironically, before going back to his desk. In hindsight, the boy has hardly complained about desk work at all this week. That is...odd. Ronin will find out why later.

 

Or perhaps Tara will. Nod’s more comfortable with emotional disclosure with her than with him anyway.

 

Saturday is spent putting the final touches on the nursery while Tara oversees from her comfy chair. They’ve painted the walls a light yellow with green touches. All of the furniture is white, from the crib to the diaper-changing table, but they haven’t organized all of the gifts from the baby shower (though all of the thank-you notes have been written and sent out).

 

The previous parents gave them things like diapers and actual needs, but the not-parents gave them clothes and toys, (“They’re all things we need,” Tara had said patiently, eyeing the pile. Her smile had creeped him out, “but the people who gave us diapers are my favorite.”)

 

The baby’s due in three, three and a half weeks. Ronin’s honestly not sure he’s going to make it that far.

 

Then they finally— _finally_ —have that discussion about baby names. Of course, they don’t agree with each other’s choices, but it’s a start.

 

This takes most the day, and by the time Ronin makes dinner, Tara’s curled up on the roast chair, asleep. “I’ll only rest my eyes.” He snorts. Still, she’s been near-constantly exhausted this past week, heading to bed at 8 and sleeping until 7 in the morning.

 

It’s past time for her to take her maternity leave, but she wants as much time with the baby as she can, and she argues that she can do town paperwork in bed as much as any other place.

 

Well, if she stands by that, he may just ask that she work from home.

 

Still, despite the ‘work’ they’ve accomplished, Saturday’s nice and quiet, and he could use some quiet. And after dinner, when he sits on the couch after Tara fussed to join him, reading on his iPad while she reads one of her ridiculous novels, she balances her feet against his thigh and it’s like they’re newly-married again.

 

No, that’s not quite correct. His love for her is stronger now than it was when they were first married, even though when they married he thought his heart would burst from his love for her.

 

They’ve been married for fifteen years. The first years were difficult, but he has never doubted her regard for him, just as he knows she’s never doubted his.

 

Even if she has to sleep with a towel underneath her right now.

 

He lets her sleep in on Sunday morning, pulling together Sunday lunch. While Tara’s morning sickness went away about two months ago, her stomach’s still sensitive, so he makes sure to include a salad for her with some lighter fare—grilled chicken instead of baked, and no shellfish. The rest of it is grilled vegetables, fresh bread, grilled pork (he may get by with his cooking, but his grilling is superb), and even though Nod promised to bring dessert, he still makes up five mini fruit tarts. Can’t be too careful.

 

Tara wanders into the kitchen at half past ten, still in her pajamas. It’s easier for her to get up by herself in the mornings, but Ronin still wishes she would wait for him to help her up. “Nod and MK will be here in an hour,” he says mildly as he places the tarts in the refrigerator to cool. “Would you like me to help you dress?”

 

“No, I think I’ll scandalize Nod terribly and wear my pajamas in front of him,” Tara says wickedly. “Can I have the berry protein smoothie?”

 

Ronin retrieves the bottle, shaking it up and getting out a tall glass. He grabs a raspberry from the open container and places it as a garnish on top of the drink, before passing it to Tara.

 

“You had quite a promising career as a bartender,” Tara says, taking a sip. “Besides, my pajamas could be considered clothes,” she adds after she swallows.

 

Ronin looks her over. While she still wears suits and low heels to work, at home she’s almost always in sweats and a loose shirt. Those are what she sleeps in as well. “The most casual Nod’s ever seen you has been in jeans and boots,” he remarks, popping a raspberry in his mouth.

 

“I’m pregnant. If the boy can’t handle me in sweats...” Tara winces.

 

Ronin stands up straight. “What is it?”

 

“Baby kicked me,” she says. “Um, bathroom.”

 

“Let’s go,” he steers her to the bathroom, and once she’s settled in, he takes the time to grab her comfortable clothing and he takes it back to the bathroom, offering them to her.

 

She mock-glares at him. “You think you’re so sneaky,” she accuses.

 

“No, I _know_ I’m sneaky,” he replies, smiling slightly. He offers the clothes to her again, and with much eye rolling, she takes them, making him help her get dressed.

 

He gets her settled into the living room while he makes up the rest of the food and sets the table.

 

By the time there’s the knock on the door, Tara’s at the table, trying not to fiddle with the table setting (she firmly believes that she sets a better table than him). Ronin opens the door, and Nod’s dressed fairly formally (for him), in khakis and a button down green shirt. Behind him, MK looks shy, in a long black skirt and a pink blouse, holding what looks like an apple pie. “Please come in,” he steps aside, allowing them to come inside.

 

Tara twists her head to smile at them. “Hello, Nod. Mary Katherine, I would get up but sadly Baby has other plans.”

 

He sees MK’s eyes widen at how obviously pregnant Tara is, and he waits for her to comment on it, or say she prefers to be called MK, but it never comes. “No, it’s okay,” MK stammers. Ronin closes the door and gestures them to come in while he takes the pie from MK. “Where would you like us?”

 

“The food’s ready so please sit,” Tara smiles, patting the seat next to her. MK slides into it, and Nod sits next to her.

 

The only thing that needs to be added are drinks, and he asks, “What would you like? We have iced tea, water, ginger ale, and lemonade.”

 

“Um, water,” MK says nervously. He doesn’t blame her—Tara has her charm on, and that be overwhelming for people who don’t know Tara.

 

“Lemonade, please,” Nod tells him.

 

“I’ll second that,” Tara smiles while Ronin raises a brow at his godson. He’s not usually this polite.

 

He loses track of the conversation but comes back to hear Tara say, “—liking Moonhaven so far?”

 

“Well,” MK fumbles, “it’s a small town.” He sees Nod smother a smile with his hand as he passes him his lemonade; Ronin surmises that this has been a frequent topic between the two of them and smothers a smile of his own. “Complete with small town atmosphere.”

 

“So essentially, no one’s leaving you alone to let you stew with your thoughts,” Tara guesses, propping her chin on her hands.

 

“Pretty much, yeah.”

 

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Tara offers, leaning back in her chair when Ronin returns with their drinks. She smiles up at him and continues, “I know from my own experiences that being left alone with grief does not a healthy person make.”

 

“But this—this isn’t a shared expression of grief,” MK argues. Nod exchanges looks with Ronin, but Ronin knows what Tara is doing, and is happy to pass around the grilled pork plate. “This is—rooting for information for the sake of titillation.”

 

“Your mother was known to some of us,” Tara points out, passing the pork to MK, who takes a slice and gives the plate to Nod. “ _We_ grieve her.”

 

“You knew my mother?” MK leans forward, and she suddenly looks—hungry. With what she told him on Monday, Ronin wonders how much of her mother’s history when they lived in Moonhaven she actually knows. From her ravenous curiosity, he thinks, not much.

 

“Yes. She served on Moonhaven Methodist’s church board. To do any sort of activity on public grounds, they had to get the mayor’s permission. I was Chief of Staff then, and she and I grew friendly.”

 

“I never knew that.”

 

“She quit the board shortly before she left,” Tara says, nodding at the salad. Ronin passes it to her. “I understand there were tensions.”

 

“What kind of tensions?”

 

“Moonhaven Methodist, at that time, was under conservative leadership,” Ronin remarks, passing Tara the balsamic vinegar before she asks.

 

“Conservative meaning against divorce,” Tara clarifies, sprinkling her salad. “Your mother’s faith was some of the strongest that I’ve ever seen, and she talked with her minister frequently, and when he did not give her the answers she was seeking, she left. Or so she told me, anyway.”

 

“She never attended a church once we moved to Westchester,” MK says quietly. “I guess she was burned bad.”

 

“She loved you, though,” Tara’s eyes are watching MK keenly as MK pokes at her pork. “She put you in Magdalena Zerfall’s dance school once you were three.”

 

Nod jerks, but MK doesn’t notice. “I don’t remember that. I do remember my first recital,” MK smiles fondly at the memory, pausing to take a bite of pork. An expression of bliss crosses her face, before she swallows and continues. “It was at Westchester Community Center.”

 

“Do you still dance?” Tara asks with interest, taking a bite of salad when Ronin looks at her pointedly.

 

“Yes. Well, I did. I haven’t danced since my mother died.”

 

“Are you going to major in dance?”

 

“I don’t know. Dance was something I did with my mom, and--,” she stops, as though realizing she’s said more than she wants to.

 

Tara reaches out a hand, ignoring her salad. Ronin sighs internally as Tara squeezes MK’s hand. “You know, she told me once that she put you in dance because you danced before you walked. She may not be there cheering for you, but dancing will keep her close.”

 

MK blinks rapidly, and she grabs a piece of bread to hide it. “I haven’t auditioned to be a dance major,” she admits once she has herself under control.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“NYU.”

 

“So that would be the Tisch School of Performing Arts,” Tara muses. “Are you going in August?”

 

“No, January. I asked that due to family circumstances, that I wait a semester. They were happy to give me the time,” MK shrugs, blinking rapidly again. “The news of this case even reached them.”

 

“Have you considered asking them to wait until next August?” Tara rolls her eyes at Ronin and takes a bite of salad, before continuing, “I know that Tisch only accepts new students for the fall.”

 

“I don’t have a routine, and that takes months. I don’t have practice space, either.”

 

“Well, I can solve practice space,” Tara says nonchalantly, eating another bite of salad. “The Moonhaven Community Center runs a dance camp. Olivia Fleur—I believe you’ve met her—runs it, and if you talk to her, she may be able to get you practice space. As for a routine, well, that’s up to you, I’m afraid. And you do have time—isn’t the deadline January 1st?”

 

Ronin peers at his wife. She knows too much about this for it to be a casual interest. She takes another bite of salad and winks at him surreptitiously. “I _also_ know that they’re planning a production of _Swan Lake_ for October and they’re holding auditions for the lead in two weeks.”

 

Nod looks from Tara to Ronin with dawning comprehension. _Now_ he gets what Tara is doing, while Ronin’s known all along. The boy should really buck up his observation skills.

 

“I’ll think about it,” MK says, looking blank and overwhelmed. Tara often inspires those actions.

 

“Do. Now, Nod, tell me all the gossip.”

 

After lunch is eaten and dessert partaken of, Nod and Tara settle in the front room to gossip while MK hastily offers to help with the dishes. At first he demurs, but Tara raises her eyebrows and he acquiesces.

 

She rolls up her sleeves and gets to work, and he copies her, taking charge of the leftovers while she loads the dishwasher. “Are you all right?” he asks at last.

 

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” her tone is blasé, but she won’t look at him.

 

“Tara can be a little overwhelming,” he says lightly.

 

“Oh no, that doesn’t bother me.” She frowns at the lower deck of the dishwasher, rearranging the plates so she can fit the baking pan into it.

 

“So then what is?”

 

MK shrugs. He doesn’t want to push her too far, but the way Tara pushed at the issue earlier makes him think she hasn’t talked about this to anyone, and he’s lost enough people over the years, Nod’s father included, to know that she needs to talk about it. He hesitates, before placing a hand on her shoulder. She looks at him, and while her eyes are puffy, they’re clear. “You can speak to me about this, if you wi—want. I’ve lost too many officers over the years, or if you don’t want to speak to me, I can direct you to the police psychologist. She’s very good.”

 

“I’m fine,” she starts, but then she shakes her head. “I’m not fine, but—I find it hard to show my grief to other people.”

 

He understands that. “You shouldn’t let that keep you from opening up about your grief,” he says gently, lifting her chin so she meets his eyes. “What happened to your mother was a horror, and it created a deep wound. If this was a visible, fleshy wound, would you be against treatment?”

 

“Do you know about what happened to my mother?”

 

He frowns. “I only know she was murdered.”

 

MK abruptly retreats into herself, and he realizes there’s more at play here than just a murdered mother, though ‘just’ would be difficult enough. “I will consider what you have said,” she says quietly, “and thank you.”

 

He’s lost the chance to reach her, but he’ll have the opportunity again. If Nod is serious about this flirtation, he definitely will.

 

MK and Nod take their leave not long after that, and Tara takes a nap while Ronin accesses the necessary documents about the Westchester Strangler case. Given his rank, he can access the things the papers don’t talk about.

 

He grows more and more horrified with each document. MK’s mother, Anna, was the fourth victim, and the previous three had suffered such injuries, and apparently MK’s intervention prevented the worst of it, but she was too late to save her mother.

 

This is violence even Mandrake would hesitate to sink to.

 

No wonder she hurts so much.

 

Due to the nature of the crimes, the last document states, they want to try the man as soon as possible, and the trial is due to last about six weeks—quite fast, considering the evidence, number of victims, and list of witnesses. The people want justice, for this animal—no. To call him an animal separates him from humanity, and what this man did is sink to the deepest depths of humanity, distilled into one being. This _man_ terrorized a community for eight months, and the community wants justice—or blood. If they can’t have one, they’ll get the other.

 

He can’t—entirely—blame them.

 

“Ronin?” Tara is standing at the doorway to his study, clad in a loose robe. “What’s wrong? I could hear your horror rooms away.”

 

“I looked up the case,” he says flatly, turning to her. “I got more detail than you did.”

 

Tara looks at him. “It’s that bad, then.”

 

“It’s worse.”

 

“Her rage and pain is like an open wound, sucking in everything that it comes across,” Tara says tiredly, coming in and sitting down on the couch. “Her guilt consumes her.”

 

“Did you read that too?”

 

“Oh please, like I need to extend my empathy to pick up on _that_ ,” Tara snorts. “You saw it too.”

 

“I may have broached the subject.”

 

“And?”

 

“I may have hit a snag.”

 

“Do you think she listened?”

 

“I hope she did. She won’t start to heal until she starts to open up.”

 

“I’ll go see her tomorrow, apologize for my rude behavior,” Tara stretches carefully. “Though she’d likely listen to you more than me. I remind her too much of Anna, and before you ask, that I _did_ read from her.”

 

“I didn’t know she was on the church board,” Ronin remarks, standing up to join his wife on the couch. She leans into him, and he can feel her sadness. She must be tired—she usually keeps her shields up.

 

“She was,” Tara mumbles. “She didn’t like it very much, but she was trying to be a part of the community, and she thought that joining her faith and the community was the best option at the time. We had the most interesting theological discussions over coffee in the afternoons.”

 

“It seems she was a greater part of the community than I thought.”

 

“Not for very long, but she broke up the monotony of my work as Chief of Staff, facilitating town corruption.” Tara wrinkles her nose. She loathed being the Chief of Staff, and the moment she became mayor, the wink to corruption ended. “Our friendship was meant to be brief, but we did keep in contact because we liked each other so much. There is much of Anna in Mary Katherine, and I think that once she has a chance to start to heal, we’ll see that.”

 

“Better her mother than her father.”

 

Tara swats him. “Be nice. Now, help me up. I need to pee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The West Memphis Three case involves young boys who were brutally murdered. The three men who were eventually convicted for the crime had no forensic evidence tying them to it, and it was due to the fact that they were 'satanists' in West Arkansas that clinched the case. They ultimately found enough evidence to appeal, and their conviction was overturned, but the main young man was still on death row for about ten to twelve years. Also, Arkansas is one of the states that doesn't give you recompense for wrongful conviction and putting you on death row. 
> 
> ask-the-boggan-king has done no small amount of work when it comes to Mandrake's wife, so I lay the Magdalena thoughts at her feet.
> 
> Edit: Tara and Ronin have been married for fifteen years, not eleven. I recently redid my math, and realized I wasn't entirely accurate. Note to self: always triple-check my math. It'll be wrong the first two times.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General trigger warning for violence and eye damage.
> 
> Playlist for this chapter: demons (imagine dragons), check yes juliet (we the kings), and radioactive (imagine dragons).

**CHAPTER THREE**

 

MK stifles a yawn as she turns the page in _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_. She’d vaguely remembered strange Captain Nemo, and she had decided to remedy the situation now that she had the time.

 

The mayor had been—interesting. MK wasn’t sure what to make of her. She would push really hard in one direction, and just when MK was about to throw in the towel and confess all, she’d drop it and change the subject. There’s something about the mayor that reminds her of Mom, maybe the combination of warmth with curiosity. Mom could be all sympathy when she wanted you to tell her something that you didn’t necessarily want to say, and she was so warm about the whole thing you didn’t even know you were doing it.

 

_That’s_ Mayor Sylva. It’s uncomfortable.

 

And Ronin saying she could talk to him—that’s flattering, but she doesn’t know if she can air the words she’s held in since she talked to the FBI agents. She can’t stand to have Ronin look at her after that. She’s—no, MK. Don’t go there. Not today.

 

The little bell dings, and she slides her book under the counter. “Hello, welcome to the Rings of Knowledge, I’m MK.”

 

“Hello Mary Katherine,” Mayor Sylva smiles, leaning heavily on a tall, skinny man. On her other side is a shorter, skinny man, holding her bag. “This is Grub and Mub, my aides.”

 

Grub and...Mub. Okay then. “Can you give us a moment?” Mayor Sylva sparkles at them.

 

Grub hesitates. “Madam Mayor--.”

 

“I’ll go home after this, I promise.” Mayor Sylva’s smile could persuade enemy combatants to do what she wanted. Grub and Mub stand no chance.

 

“Madam Mayor, can I get you a chair?” MK scrambles up.

 

Mayor Sylva holds up a hand. “If I sit down, I won’t be getting back up. And call me Tara. You don’t work for me.”

 

MK stands (if the pregnant mayor is going to stand, she will too), pressing her lips together as she runs her fingertips over the edge of the counter. “Is there anything I can help you find today?”

 

“I wanted to apologize,” Mayor Sylva says with a smile, but not the blinding charm she’d turned on Mub and Grub. “I picked too deeply at your wounds, and that was out of line. I’m sorry.”

 

“No one’s really talked to me about my mother,” MK says quietly. “I—didn’t mind that.”

 

“Not even your father?” Mayor Sylva sounds like she’s frowning.

 

“No,” MK shakes her head. “And—I don’t really want to hear about it from him anyway. He let us go, and,” she gulps, but she’s been sitting on this, and she needs to say it, “and the only reason why he came back is because my mother died. That’s too high a cost.”

 

“Oh sweetheart,” Mayor Sylva sighs. “For that, I am even more sorry.”

 

“Why? My mother was your friend, but my father and me—that’s our tragedy.” MK is trying not to sound confrontational, she doesn’t _feel_ confrontational, but why does the mayor care?

 

“My mother raised me on her own,” Mayor Sylva says, wincing as she rubs her stomach. “She never mentioned my father, and I have no idea who he was. My mother—she was my everything, and I never regretted the lack of my father. You, however—you had a father, and he left you, and now you’ve come back, and he has no idea how to raise or treat an almost-adult daughter, thanks in no small part to his choices. He probably feels just as lost as you do. And I do like your father, for what it’s worth, but Bomba is not...emotionally mature,” Mayor Sylva purses her lips. “He does not know _how_ to feel about certain issues.”

 

“So, what, I’m supposed to teach him?” MK says defensively, “That’s _not_ my job.”

 

“No, it isn’t, and that is not what I’m saying,” Mayor Sylva says, a little sharply. “I think your father doesn’t know how to grieve because he was never taught it was all right to grieve.”

 

“So, what, Dad’s emotionally stunted? Why, because of his _childhood_?” MK laughs a little bitterly. “My Grandma Lyse—his mother—was the warmest person that I’ve ever met, and she was still close with my mom after the divorce, and it wasn’t just because of me.”

 

“It’s not just parents that influence a childhood,” Mayor Sylva says quietly.

 

MK blinks. When she opens her mouth to reply, she realizes she _has_ no reply and closes it.

 

“I’d better go home,” Mayor Sylva winces. “Baby likes to play, and lately that means kicking me black and blue.”

 

“I’m sorry,” MK says truthfully. “I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

 

“Pray you never have to,” Mayor Sylva laughs. “All right, gentlemen, I’m ready to go home. Also, Mary Katherine?” She looks over her shoulder as Grub propels her out. “You are always welcome in my home, and please join us again this Sunday. Nim’s coming, and he always supplies the most interesting topics of conversation.”

 

“I’ll be there,” MK promises before she realizes what she’s said. Before she can take it back, Mayor Sylva’s already out the door and being carefully placed in a white car.

 

How does this happen to her?

 

\--

 

“I think I’ve figured it out,” Finn says, swinging into the bullpen on crutches. Ronin walks with him, keeping an eye on him. “I think I’ve figured out the disposable guy.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“See, the thing is, Mandrake’s organization is fairly stable, but there is an unstable element—Dagda.” Finn sits down, putting aside his crutches as Ronin closes the door. “Mandrake’s son isn’t as smart as him, and he’s more reckless.”

 

“What, do you think Dagda could be pushed to rash action?”

 

“When _isn’t_ that kid acting stupid?” Finn snorts as Ronin sits down. “Dagda’s been quiet for a couple of weeks. That usually means he’s about to do something stupid.”

 

“What, is this sociological fact?”

 

Finn rolls his eyes. “Consider it experience from years of reports of his misbehavior crossing my desk.”

 

“Fair enough.” Ronin shuffles papers. “So do you think that Mandrake would cut Dagda loose?”

 

“Mandrake would never cut off his own son. Family matters too much to him, even if that family has become a liability. And Dagda would never turn on Mandrake—no, if we’re going to use Dagda, it’ll have to be for something we can absolutely nail him on, with proof that dear old Dad ordered him to do it.”

 

“So what, are you trying to set a trap for him?”

 

Finn slumps. “Don’t have to. Dagda will act up, as he is wont to do, and we’ll use him to nail Mandrake to the wall.”

 

“Let me know when we’ve got something we can use,” Ronin says, looking at Finn.

 

Finn salutes. “Yes sir.”

 

“Now get out of my office,” Ronin orders fondly.

 

Finn rolls his eyes, reaching for his crutches and leaving.

 

The day passes by fairly quickly. Nod’s habit—leaving at two and coming back at three, beaming---helps Ronin keep track of the time. The fact that the boy has not argued about his desk assignment since last Monday is—interesting.

 

He half-wonders if Nod would object to being put back on field duty. It could be intriguing, to test him. What is Nod doing with his spare time?

 

Tara would probably know. She and Nod had an extensive conversation while he and MK did the dishes yesterday.

 

He was probably asking her for tips, the part of his mind that supplies his humor quips.

 

That is actually...somewhat horrifying.

 

\--

 

MK yawns as she opens the small fridge in the office. Ugh, she hates Tuesdays. Wednesdays may be hump days, but Tuesdays are the worst. She hears the little _ding_ of the bell, and she grabs her water, heading back into the shop. “Hi, I’m MK, and welcome to the Rings of Knowledge, can I help you find something?”

 

“Actually, yes, you can,” Bufo says, looking over the children’s books. “My little girl started reading, and I want some books for her. Any recommendations?”

 

“Well, there’s this one,” she pulls one, “’ _The Day the Crayons Quit_.’ This boy’s crayon box—“

 

Bufo holds up a hand. “I’m sure it’s great, but do you have something aimed at girls?”

 

MK feels herself start to smile. “Yeah, we do. _Ladybug Girl_ and _The Six Sisters and Their Flying Carpets_ are good places to start. _Ladybug Girl_ is about a little girl who dresses up to find all kinds of fun in her backyard, and _Six Sisters_ is about six girls who fly carpets to get them clean, and the prince of their land wants to learn how to fly too. They try to teach him, but it doesn’t exactly go well.”

 

Bufo nods, taking the books from her. “What about chapter books that I can read to her?”

 

MK grins. “Have you ever heard of _The Classroom At the End of the Hall_? It’s a collection of short stories about strange occurrences that take place in this one classroom, and it was one of my favorite books that my mom read to me.”

 

“Are they funny?”

 

“Oh yes,” MK assures him. “One of the stories features the class braggart dressing up as a witch, and a _real_ witch shows up and, well, shows her up. It’s great.” She pauses for a moment, but takes a chance. “You know, you can bring her in sometime. Nim and I were talking about creating events for the kids, anyway.”

 

“She’s in Olivia Fleur’s dance camp,” Bufo explains, taking out his wallet as MK carries the books to the register. “She’s busy on the afternoons.”

 

“I somehow thought that was an all-day camp.”

 

“No, it’s only afternoons,” he shakes his head, opening his wallet to take out a credit card. A photo flutters out, and MK picks it up, glancing at it impulsively as she hands it back to him. He takes it, and then he looks at her. “My wife. She’s a Marine, currently serving in Afghanistan.”

 

“I’m sorry,” MK says.

 

“Nothing to apologize for. She serves her country with honor,” Bufo smiles, “even if she misses her daughter.”

 

MK nods slowly. “Maybe I’m just a little sensitive about missing mothers,” she admits, wrapping up his books and putting them in a bag.

 

“Who can blame you?” Bufo snorts, taking his bag.

 

“By the way, you should know Nod wasn’t making a move on me Thursday night,” she says awkwardly. “I had a panic attack, and he was anchoring me.”

 

Now it’s Bufo’s turn to nod slowly. “I see.”

 

“What did he do to you, anyway?”

 

“He lost me a lot of money,” Bufo says coolly.

 

“Ah. Uh, okay.”

 

Bufo’s smile is no longer warm. “I’d be careful around him. His impulses are expensive, and he may not be the one paying.”

 

MK blinks. “I will...keep that in mind?”

 

“Do,” and Bufo exits the door and is gone.

 

Well, that was—odd. Nod had not reacted well when Bufo had interrupted their little tête-à-tête last week, and she’d noted then that Bufo seemed to be at least somewhat moral. The knowledge that he has a daughter explains that.

 

She puts it out of her mind. Tomorrow’s the self-defense class, and she’s been practicing. If the dance camp only meets in the afternoons, maybe she can use the dance school in the mornings. She’ll have to talk to Olivia Fleur. Doesn’t she have a daughter too?

 

\--

 

“How was work?” Tara asks, smiling up at him from her place on the couch. She’s got the footrest up, and a quilt over her legs. On top of that is a board, with paperwork strewn across it.

 

His lips turn up in a slight smile, and he leans down to kiss her forehead. “No tragedies today.”

 

“Finn back on active duty?”

 

“He’s on duty, but not quite active. He wants to be back in the field, but he’s still got stitches in his leg. The only reason he’s in at all is that he’d pick out his own stitches if I left him at home for another day.” He sits down next to her, carefully so as not to jostle the paperwork.

 

“He is the type,” Tara agrees, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “But he, unlike other people I could name, never tried to dig out a bullet with their pocketknife.”

 

“Hey, that was _once_.”

 

Tara splays her hand on the left side of his chest, right over the knotted scar. “Once was enough.”

 

He presses his hand over hers. “Believe me, the tongue lashing I received has inspired me to never do it again.”

 

“What about a different kind of tongue lashing?” Tara murmurs, lacing their fingers together. “A...lot of things come to mind.”

 

He’s tempted, but he has to ask, “And what does Doctor Sayda say?”

 

Tara grimaces. “Nothing strenuous until after the baby is born.”

 

He lifts her hand and presses a kiss to it. “It’ll give you something to look forward to.”

 

“I’ll give you something to look forward to,” Tara grouses, but she’s smiling, so he knows he’s forgiven.

 

He gets up. “What do you want for dinner?”

 

“Soup, I think,” Tara shrugs. “Not craving anything tonight.”

 

“Very well,” he says, heading for the kitchen. “Mild?”

 

“Yes, I think that’s probably for the best,” Tara grimaces.

 

Chicken noodle with tofu it is, then.

 

\--

 

“So, I can use the dance school in the mornings?” MK can’t quite believe her ears.

 

“Well, I have to clear it with Mr. Zerfall, but I can’t think of why he wouldn’t agree. After his wife died, we were left without a steady dance teacher, so he closed the school. Two years ago, we got a student at the university who was studying to be a teacher, and she was willing to take up the classes, and now I teach them,” Mrs. Fleur smiles slightly. “He told me once he wishes we had a steady teacher, since I teach second grade during the school year, but he’s willing to have the school in use as long as there’s enough students for a class.”

 

“It’s always nice to hear that people care about the performing arts,” MK says seriously. “My theatre department at my high school didn’t get any official funding, so they had fundraiser after fundraiser just to fund the first production of the year, and they could only afford to put on three productions a year.”

 

“Well, Mr. Zerfall certainly cares about dance,” Mrs. Fleur says neutrally. There’s a shuttered look to her eyes that MK doesn’t quite get. “I’ll call him up this afternoon, and I’ll come by the shop once I have his answer.”

 

“Thank you,” MK says impulsively, grasping the woman’s arm. “I—really appreciate it.”

 

“I am sorry about your mother,” Mrs. Fleur tells her. “I did not have the opportunity to tell you earlier. I didn’t get the chance to meet her, but from those who did know her, she left an impression.”

 

“Thank you,” MK bows her head.

 

“I’ll talk to you later,” Mrs. Fleur tells her. “I’ll make sure to call him. And please, call me Olivia.”

 

“Okay,” MK smiles.

 

“Have a good day,” Mrs—Olivia tells her as MK stands up. “And be careful—it looks like rain.”

 

MK pulls up her hood in response, looking up at the sky. The clouds are gathering, and there’s a chill wind. She shivers, sticking her hands in her pockets as she walks to the bookshop. If Olivia gets back to her, she could start practicing as soon as tomorrow.

 

She doesn’t know if she’s happy or sad at the thought.

 

It starts to rain about an hour into her shift, and she admits to herself that she doesn’t expect Nod to show up on his day off, in the rain. While he’s been showing up and they’ve been having legitimate conversations (though he still refuses to read Jane Austen, but she’s persistent and she’ll win in the end), but he still infuses a good part of their interactions with flirting.

 

She’s just not sure if she wants the flirtation with their serious conversations. She likes him when he’s genuine, but she doesn’t know if he’s genuine when he’s flirting. And why her, anyway? Is it just because she’s new, and he likes a challenge, because she sure as hell isn’t going to make it easy on him. There is absolutely nothing that should draw him to her, except that she’s new, and that she has a dead mom.

 

And he has a dead dad.

 

He’s been—actually helpful during this entire thing, and she likes bantering with him, but why is he interested in her in the first place? _That’s_ what’s bothering her, she realizes. There’s too much discomfort in her situation, and she doesn’t want that to be the reason because—

 

She wants him to like her for _her_ , not because her tragedy gives him an opportunity.

 

“Holy epiphany Batman,” she whispers, closing her book. The little bell dings, and she straightens up, pushing away her book. “Welcome to the Rings of Knowledge, I’m MK, can I get you some paper towels?”

 

“No, I’m good, but thank you,” the man in the doorway says. “Do you mind if I leave my umbrella near the door?”

 

“That’s what the garbage can is for,” she points.

 

“Ah, thank you.” She studies him as he shakes out the umbrella after putting it into the garbage bin—he’s tall and grizzled, but not grizzled like Ronin is. His black hair’s turning grey at the temples, and he wears a black suit over a white shirt and gray tie. He also has a cane, which he leans on as he heads towards the biography section.

 

Something isn’t right with him—her nerves are jangling, but he’s not presenting a clear threat. She doesn’t know who he is, and unlike every other person who’s crossed that threshold, he hasn’t introduced himself.

 

She doesn’t want to be alone with this man, and ever since her mother’s death, she hasn’t questioned her instincts once. She reaches under the counter and pulls out her phone, punching in Nod’s number and texting, ‘Pls come 2 shop.’

 

Nod’s text vibrates her phone in less than a second. ‘On my way.’

 

Thank god he didn’t ask why.

 

“Tell me, does Nim know when this title is coming out in paperback?” the man appears between the shelves, showing her a Laurie Garret book. She peers at it.

 

“Let me check the back. Sometimes we get the schedule, sometimes we don’t.”

 

“Take your time, I’m in no hurry.”

 

His accent is strange. At some points, it sounds German, but at others, there’s a French twist.

 

He’s a chameleon, she realizes as she looks up the publishing schedule, hoping to find the title he’s looking for. He adapts.

 

That sends a shiver down her spine. Chameleons rarely give you clues into what they actually are, and since he’s already set off her creeper buttons, she’s willing to bet this man is some kind of predator.

 

She wishes Nod would get there quickly.

 

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t find it,” she tells him, coming back into the front. He’s leaning on the counter.

 

“It’s all right, I’ll just get this one. Have you read anything by her?”

 

“No,” she admits, starting to ring him up. “But I’m not exactly a public health person.”

 

“She is quite a good storyteller,” his tone is mild, but she detects a touch of reproof, and she bristles at it. “You can tell she’s a journalist, at the very least.”

 

“That’ll be twenty-one seventy-five,” she says, packaging up the book and putting it in a bag.

 

“Here we are,” he says, pulling out a wallet. “You look like your mother, you know.”

 

She freezes. “Excuse me?”

 

“I knew her while she lived here,” he makes a soft, considering noise at the back of his throat. Over his shoulder, she sees Nod come in, dripping wet. He raises a hand in greeting, but his eyebrows are furrowed. “I found her—intriguing. She certainly was your father’s better half,” he laughs slightly, and MK finds herself getting angry. “It was a shame when she left, but I couldn’t blame her.”

 

She shoves the package at him. “Twenty-five cents is your change, and please come back and see us.”

 

“I have no doubt I will,” he says, smiling. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Mary Katherine.”

 

She doesn’t realize she’s shaking until Nod presses a hand to her shoulder after the man has left. “Hey, are you all right?”

 

“Would you hold it against me if I said I’d really appreciate a hug right now?” she says, breathing in deeply.

 

Nod rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to _ask_ for that.” He pulls her to him. “Do you know who he was?”

 

“He never introduced himself,” she says into his shirt, “but I was afraid to be alone with him. Thank you for coming.”

 

He presses a kiss to her hair, and she nearly stops breathing. “I knew something was wrong when you abbreviated. Your texts are longwinded and grammatically correct.”

 

She laughs slightly, pushing away from him. “Oh _whatever_.”

 

“So, who are you reading today? One of the Brontes?”

 

“I am so glad you actually know that there’s more than one,” she starts, and they’re off. They’re so busy bantering she doesn’t realize he never told her who the man was.

 

\--

 

Ronin returns from a coffee break to find Nod in his office, leaning against the wall. “Isn’t today your day off?” he says rhetorically, moving around his godson to sit at his desk.

 

“I felt a little weird going through your files without you here.”

 

“I applaud your discretion,” he says dryly. “What do you need to know?”

 

“Mandrake met MK today.”

 

Ronin looks at him—really looks at him. Nod’s pale, his eyes huge in his face, and his hands are shaking slightly. “What happened?”

 

“He triggered her—did it deliberately. She didn’t have a full panic attack, but she was heading there.”

 

“How did he trigger her?”

 

“Mentioned her mom, how else? He told her she looked like her, and that somehow they knew each other while her mom lived here.” Nod looks furious, and Ronin realizes that’s why Nod’s so pale. “She hasn’t gotten to the point where she can hear people talk about her mom and not be affected by it yet.”

 

“He implied there was a history?”

 

“Yeah. Can I check your files, see if there’s anything?”

 

For answer, Ronin opens his drawer. “It should be between the years of ’95 and ’97.” He points it out to Nod, who immediately starts rifling through them.

 

“There’s nothing here,” Nod sounds frustrated.

 

“There are other ways they could have interacted without a crime being involved,” Ronin points out as Nod shuts the drawer with an irritated snap. “Mandrake is actually a member of the community, and pays his taxes and everything.”

 

“Were you hoping to get him on tax evasion?”

 

“That’s how they got Al Capone.”

 

Nod snorts, standing up. “Wow. So, where should I check next?”

 

“Try town hall,” Ronin tells him. “If they interacted in a professional capacity, it would be logged there. Remember that MK went to his wife’s dance school—it’s entirely possible that they met in that capacity, and it wouldn’t be logged.”

 

“No, it was a taunt,” Nod says decisively. “He triggered her to throw it off, but he was taunting her.”

 

“Why taunt her, though?” Ronin asks, raising an eyebrow. He’s somewhat impressed by Nod’s line of thought here—the boy’s learning to think more deeply. “What does that accomplish?”

 

Nod rolls his eyes. “Why does Mandrake do anything? Because he likes power, and triggering Anna Kennedy’s daughter gives him that.”

 

“You’re implying that Mandrake and Anna had some kind of...disagreement.”

 

“Everyone who meets him ends up having some kind of disagreement.”

 

“Except his wife.”

 

Nod shrugs. He didn’t know Magdalena Zerfall, and even years after her death, Ronin isn’t sure what to make of her. “Look, something had to happen for Mandrake to trigger her daughter with her death, right? He did it to feel power over MK, which means Anna must have somehow chipped away at his power.”

 

“Then why was she still living when she left us?” Ronin inquires.

 

“Magdalena Zerfall—maybe they were friends, and he didn’t want to upset his wife.”

 

That _is_ somewhat plausible. “Prove it, and I’ll consider it,” Ronin tells Nod, putting his eyeglasses on as he pulls the latest reports towards him. “There could be an entirely innocuous reason why he taunted her and triggered her.”

 

“Like what?”

 

Ronin shrugs. “Perhaps an innocuous reason to _Mandrake_.”

 

“Fair enough,” Nod says unhappily, ducking out of his office.

 

Finn pops his head in. “Kid’s learning.”

 

“Not nearly fast enough,” Ronin grouses.

 

“He has a reason now.”

 

“Is that what they’re calling it?”

 

Finn rolls his eyes. “Stop being a grumpy grandpa.”

 

Ronin stares. “Excuse me?”

 

“Chalk this up as a win and move on. He’s trying more now than he has in the past. That’s enough of a win in my book.”

 

“Your book, _not_ mine.”

 

\--

 

After an exhausting evening of punching and being punched in return (bruises. _Everywhere._ ), MK’s stretching out, trying not to yelp when Arya stops by. “Hey, you want to do a late dinner again?”

 

The forensic scientist is actually endearing, and MK doesn’t really want to go home yet, so she shrugs. “Sure, why not? Has it stopped raining?”

 

“About an hour ago,” the redheaded guy— _Finn_ —on crutches confirms. “Is this a party for two, or can I come?”

 

“Is that a good idea?” Arya inquires, looking at Aisling. Aisling shrugs slightly, and there’s a weird tension between the two of them.

 

“Why not?” Finn says easily. “Hey, Aisling, you coming?”

 

“Why not?” Aisling echoes. “Just let me get my coat.”

 

“Same,” MK says quickly, grabbing her back and heading for the bathroom. Her exercise clothing can absolutely not stand up to the chilly night breeze, as she discovered last week. _Not_ going through that again.

 

When MK gets back, Arya gestures for them to go. Aisling leads them, and she seems like she’s aware of Finn, should he need her. Arya falls into step with MK, and she turns toward the scientist. “Is something going on between them?”

 

“No,” Arya snorts, “but if they don’t figure it out, I’m going to lose my patience, _and_ the money I’ve put into the pool.”

 

“What?”

 

“I run the department pool,” Arya explains quietly, making sure Aisling can’t overhear this with a quick check. “The betting’s been going on for _years_. But she’s stubborn, and he’s oblivious.”

 

“Really,” MK says dryly.

 

Arya chuckles. “She’s secretly terrified of being vulnerable with anyone, and he’s too busy to put it together.”

 

“Ah. One of _those_.”

 

“Exactly,” Arya squeezes her forearm.

 

“Are you joining us or not?” Finn calls to them, “Because if you’re not, I’m not sharing my chocolate cake.”

 

“That’s what she said,” MK mutters as they catch up.

 

The air outside is a little misty, and the wind’s died down, but it’s still a little cold, so MK pulls her jacket around her a little tighter, half-listening to the banter between Arya and Finn. Aisling’s listening too, but unlike MK, she inserts quietly snarky comments, and it’s like she breathes easier the farther away from the police department they are.

 

It’s strange, but MK shrugs it off.

 

The hostess at the Hummingbird Café knows the police officers, at least, and seats them at a corner table. She somehow ends up with the chair with its back to the wall, but she’s not complaining—it means she can watch the door.

 

The way all three of them play off each doesn’t—exactly make her homesick, but she finds herself missing the friends she had in dance. Leila and Courtney were more like Aisling instead of Arya or Finn, or but the three of them, after a rehearsal or major production, would laugh off the tension in stupid stunts, drunk off of the mixture of tiredness and adrenaline. They had some really great times.

 

After her mom’s death, she stopped going to the dance studio. She wonders if Leila and Courtney still pull that stuff.

 

“You’ve been very quiet,” Finn observes once there’s a break. “Nothing to say?”

 

She refocuses. “You all have such a history, I’m just enjoying the references.”

 

Aisling reddens (that last reference must have been at her expense), but Arya laughs. “I like you,” she informs MK.

 

“I’m glad,” it’s meant to be sarcastic, but it comes out more sincerely than she means it to.

 

“Good evening,” their waitress greets, pulling out her pad. She’s already outfitted them with drinks (Finn, after a glare from Aisling, did _not_ order something alcoholic. They’re so married it’s not even funny), and now she asks, “Ready to order?”

 

“Sam, my love, my pearl, I will have my usual,” Arya announces, handing her menu to Sam.

 

Sam giggles. “All right. Finn, Aisling?”

 

MK busies herself with her menu. The apple cobbler looks good, and by the time she decides on it, Sam’s ready for her.

 

“I wish you would not flirt with our waitress,” Aisling tells Arya after Sam’s vanished back to the kitchen. “Surely her life is hard enough.”

 

“Lighten up, Aisling,” Finn moves his bandaged leg so he can more easily sprawl in his chair. “It’s not like she’s groping the girl or anything.”

 

“It’s still inappropriate,” Aisling protests.

 

Arya holds up her hands. “All right, all right, I see your point.”

 

They move onto other topics, and apart from Arya and Finn occasionally asking for her insight, she’s free to listen. From what she sees, it looks like Arya and Finn started out as friends first, and then it was Finn who introduced Aisling to Arya.

 

Despite that, it appears Aisling and Arya are closer. Aisling reads Arya well, and Arya doesn’t hesitate to tease Aisling where men would fear to tread. In fact, their rapport seems like maybe they’re roommates, complete with embarrassing stories that sharing space creates.

 

“Do you guys room together?” MK asks when there’s a lull in the conversation. She indicates Aisling and Arya when everyone stares.

 

Finn looks at Arya. “Pay up.”

 

Arya grumbles something, passing over a bill.

 

“What?” MK asks, looking at all of them. Aisling’s gaze looks something like approval, while Arya’s is put-upon, but there are sparks of amusement in her eyes.

 

“I bet you’d figure it out,” Finn explains, pocketing the bill. “Arya thought it might take you a little longer.”

 

“So you _do_ room together?”

 

“For the past five years,” Aisling confirms. “It started out with Arya asking me if she could stay with me while her apartment was fumigated. Five years later, she still hasn’t left.”

 

“Hey, you love me,” Arya protests, propping her chin in one hand. “Who else will make you watch bad B-list horror movies?”

 

“Fie upon the very thought,” Aisling rolls her eyes and MK giggles. “You’re lucky I tolerate you.”

 

“Tolerate, love, what’s the difference?” Arya shrugs. “Especially to you, dear.”

 

“Ouch,” Finn laughs. “Are we ready?”

 

“I’ll take you home,” Aisling says quickly, laying a few bills on the table. Finn nods, pulling himself up. Aisling looks like she wants to help but restrains herself; MK thinks that there are a few reasons for that restraint.

 

“And I’ll take you home in my car,” Arya says, wrapping an arm around MK’s shoulders. “Looks like the rain’s started back up again. It’ll probably rain all tomorrow too. I’d be careful walking to work.”

 

“I’m actually going to the dance school early in the morning to practice,” MK replies as they leave after paying their bills. “I haven’t danced in—a while.”

 

Arya’s eyes say she understands. “Be careful,” she cautions as she unlocks the door quickly to get them out of the rain. “It’s a bit of a walk from the school to the bookshop.”

 

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” MK says politely.

 

“Yeah, probably, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful.”

 

No. It doesn’t.

 

\--

 

Nod’s already in before Ronin. He’s making this a habit. Ronin approves.

 

He also has dark circles under his eyes and ink stains on his fingers and hands. That—is concerning. He stops by Nod’s desk. “What happened?”

 

“I must’ve went through all of the records of the town yesterday from between ’94 and ’99,” Nod mumbles, looking up with the glassy stare of the truly exhausted. “The only thing I found is that they served on the church board of Moonhaven Methodist at the same time. He quit right after she left town.” He slumps down in his chair. “I did find it interesting that Pastor Rick Newlin died about six months after Anna Kennedy left town.”

 

Ronin pauses. “Wasn’t that ruled a natural death?”

 

Nod stretches. “Man had a medical history of heart disease, but aren’t there interesting chemical ways to induce heart attacks to make it look real?”

 

“If you’re implying that Mandrake had a hand in Newlin’s death—”

 

“Think that’s what I was saying, yeah.”

 

“ _Then_ that means Mandrake didn’t dislike Anna Kennedy in the slightest,” Ronin frowns at Nod, who looks appropriately contrite. “If he was willing to kill for her.”

 

“Mandrake’s sense of affection is warped,” Nod complains.

 

“I do believe that is already a known fact,” Ronin says waspishly. “That does not answer your question from yesterday, however.”

 

“I’m working on it,” Nod retorts. “There’s got to be more to this than I originally knew.”

 

Ronin feels himself cracking a grin. _Now_ Nod is thinking like a detective. Nod looks creeped out. “Keep thinking, and keep asking questions. That’s how you get answers.”

 

Nod sighs, resting his head on his desk as Ronin continues into his office. Little by little, the rest of the morning crew trickles in—Arya and Aisling, Arya teasing Aisling mercilessly while Aisling remains stoic, and then Annalise, looking harried (her son must be acting up again), and then Jansen and Finn, followed by the rest of his people.

 

At half past eleven, Aisling knocks on the door. “Sir? I’ve got something new.”

 

“Come in,” Ronin tells her. She closes the door. Sensitive info, then.

 

“I recently got a tip from a contact that Dagda Zerfall’s attempting to stake out the art district as Boggan territory. I double and tripe checked it,” Aisling rushes on, answering a question Ronin wasn’t interested in. “It’s legitimate.”

 

“The art district,” Ronin muses. “That’s—a leap.”

 

“Apparently he’s trying to prove to Dad he can uphold the family legacy,” Aisling twists her lips in a sneer.

 

“Wait, Mandrake _doesn’t_ know?”

 

“Not the extent of my contact’s knowledge,” she shakes her head, “but then, my contact is not high in his organization.”

 

“There’s no way Dagda can hold the art district, not feasibly.”

 

“Dagda isn’t the smartest guy around.”

 

“Mandrake’s either going to tell Dagda to pull out or struggle to hold it,” Ronin observes. “He’s always decreed that the roads nearest us are neutral territory. If we come down hard, Mandrake’s going to lose people holding it.”

 

“Mandrake doesn’t care about losing people.”

 

“Mandrake cares about Dagda,” Ronin corrects, “and Dagda’s so intent on proving himself to Dad that he’d be in the front lines of _that_ battle.”

 

“You’re saying he could get himself killed,” Aisling remarks.

 

“I’m saying Dagda’s created the opportunity,” Ronin says quietly. “Good work, Aisling.”

 

Aisling sits a little straighter in her chair. “I know this can’t make up for--.”

 

Ronin holds up a hand. “I’m going to stop you right there,” he tells her. “I’m not angry with you over that, and I don’t hold you accountable for it. Stop blaming yourself.”

 

Aisling lowers her eyes. “Two DEA agents are dead.”

 

“That is the fault of the Boggans, not you,” Ronin tells her gently. “You’ve never needed to prove yourself to me, Aisling. When I’m in a firefight, I want you there covering my back. I trust you with my life, and I trust you with Tara’s life. You’re a good officer, but if you let guilt dictate your actions, you’ll never be a great one.”

 

“Yes sir,” Aisling mutters.

 

Ronin smiles slightly. “Now go back to work.”

 

Aisling offers him a rare smile. “Yes sir.”

 

\--

 

“So, you never told me who that guy was on Wednesday,” MK remarks, checking the latest books that came in on a shipment that morning. Nim had left her instructions for checking them in to the system—done—and then to organize it according to genre and author. “Good job with that, by the way—I _almost_ didn’t pick up on it.”

 

“Oh, come on,” Nod drawls, following behind her as she moves the cart from section to section. “I thought I was being clever.”

 

She turns around, poking him the chest. “Clever fades, Nod. Who is he?”

 

“He’s...Mandrake,” Nod sighs.

 

She stares at him. “The town _drug lord_ just came into my shop and--.”

 

“Shh, keep your voice down,” Nod hushes.

 

“Why? We’re the only ones in the shop.”

 

“I don’t want you to fret yourself into a panic attack,” Nod says smoothly. He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m really just looking out for you.”

 

She points her finger at him. “Okay, A) that was condescending and rude as hell, and B) I think I’m allowed to be a little upset that _that guy_ came into my shop and...yeah.”

 

“You told me he was a predator,” Nod says, watching her as she checks the spines of the books, matching up the author alphabetically.

 

“That’s not exactly what I said.”

 

“It was close enough. He’s dangerous, but he has his own code,” Nod trails off, and she looks at him in confusion. “He probably won’t harm you as long as you stay out of his way.”

 

“Probably?”

 

“It seems like he really liked your mom,” Nod tells her, checking the books on the cart. “He’s got a warped sense of affection, but as long as you stay out of his way, he won’t touch you.”

 

“So what, he’s projecting his affection for my mom onto me?”

 

“Look, I’ve barely had any dealing with him at all,” Nod shrugs. “You’re better off asking Ronin.”

 

“Yeah, that’ll go well,” she snorts. “Hey Ronin, care to explain why the local drug lord is transferring his supposed affection for my dead mother onto me? That’s not creepy, is it?”

 

“Oh, it’s beyond creepy,” Nod assures her, “but Ronin will probably say the same thing. Stay out of his way, and he won’t hurt you.”

 

“Ugh, I’m so not planning on getting involved,” she groans, tucking the books away and moving onto the next section. “I’m so not interested in small town politics.”

 

“That’s up to you,” Nod grabs her shoulder, turning her around. “But I promise, I won’t let him touch you.”

 

“How caveman of you,” she manages as he pulls her into a rough hug. She pats his back, pulling away from him.

 

He lets her, laughing a little. “Hey, look, I’ve seen what Mandrake’s done to people who’ve pissed him off. Killing’s _nice_ in comparison. I’m not going to let that happen to you.”

 

“What happened to stay out of his way?” she raises a brow, removing her hand from his grasp as she moves onto the next section.

 

“Oh, that should be a thing,” Nod tells her, following her. “But should he decide not to follow his usual MO, which he just might, I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she warns, checking the next books. “You can’t be with me 24/7, even if I did want you to. You have a job, and I officially have the beginning of a life. I’ve got dance practice in the mornings now, work in the afternoon, and the weekends off to do whatever I feel like.”

 

“Wait, go back,” Nod’s looking at her with a smile she immediately dislikes on principle. “’I can’t be with you 24/7, even if I did want you to?’ Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

 

“No,” she says instantly, turning back to the shelves, books in hand.

 

“Are you sure?” he says insouciantly, slouching up against the shelves into her personal space.

 

“Yes,” she says shortly, moving the cart down so that she can step away from him.

 

“MK,” Nod sing-songs, “have I made an _impression_?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“You tell me no, but your eyes say yes,” he teases.

 

She looks at him. That’s a mistake. He’s leaning against the bookcases, his hands in his pockets, and the green of his uniform lengthens his legs into miles. His uniform shirt clings to his chest thanks to his poor posture, and his eyes are so warm that she feels a lump rise in her throat, and she hastily turns away. “You think you’re so smart,” she retorts, but her throat is dry with the effort of it.

 

“Well, I know you appreciate it.”

 

“Oh, I _love_ being told how I feel.”

 

“Claws in, kitten,” Nod chides playfully. “Or should I call you a lioness, instead? Isn’t the female of the species more deadly than the male, anyway?”

 

“Irritate me and find out,” she promises.

 

“I think I’d like to see what you could come up with,” he murmurs as she trips on gravity, catching herself on the bar of the cart. “Imagine what you could do with me at your utter mercy.”

 

Her mouth goes dry at the thought, and Nod senses this. He continues in that murmur, meant for her ears alone. “I’ll try anything once. I don’t know if you know that, but I’m curious about everything. I’d fall at your feet, worship the very ground you walked on if you asked nicely enough. Or would you prefer it differently? You at _my_ mercy?”

 

“Stop it,” she hisses, her cheeks flaming. “This isn’t appropriate.”

 

“Something tells me you’re big into the sensation, the feel of it. Maybe a blindfold, just to heighten that. Of course, you’d have to trust me for that. Do you trust me, MK?”

 

She turns around, aiming to push him, but he grabs her wrist, smiling that uncomfortable smile as he massages the sensitive skin over her pulse with his fingertips. “Are you a talker, or would I have to convince you to be verbal? I’m pretty sure I could. If it came to a fight, I could probably take you, but this is a different kind of fight, so who’s the taker? You or me?”

 

“Stop it,” she says, but in her flusteredness it comes out as a plea. “Please. I can’t—not right now.”

 

He lets go of her wrist, and she feels the imprint of his fingers over her pulse. “Soon,” he promises, checking his watch, leaning in to kiss her cheek. Her cheeks are still red, and he chuckles at her as he pulls away. “I’ll see you tonight.”

 

“That’s awfully arrogant,” she grumps at him. “What if I have plans?”

 

“Do you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then I’m not being arrogant.”

 

“You know, you make it hard for me to have space,” she points out to him. “Are you trying to keep me discombobulated?”

 

“It is a perk,” he grins, and he ducks out of the bookshop before she can throw something at him.

 

Since Nod’s being an ass, she’s going to drag him with her to get more embroidery silk. She’s done with the calla lily pillowcase, but she has a quote from Jane Austen that she’s embroidering on silk (very carefully), and she needs more green. He can deal with all of her ramblings on the quality of the thread and whether it would work with her silk.

 

It’s Friday night, and the most exciting thing she’s planning is tormenting a guy with her embroidery ramblings. Life is good.

 

Nim comes in about half an hour before closing, grinning. “How was everything today?”

 

“Fairly quiet,” she says dryly, “but also fairly steady.”

 

Nim’s grinning at her like he knows something she doesn’t.

 

“What?” she says warily, offering him the sheet of completed orders.

 

“If you don’t know, I’ll stay quiet,” he shrugs, taking the sheet.

 

“Nim,” she warns, grabbing the dust cloth and wiping down the counters with it. “You’re being smug.”

 

“Am I?” he teases, looking over the sheet. “What happened with _The Master of Verona_?”

 

“We don’t have it in stock, and the customer wanted both _Master_ and the sequel, _Voice of the Falconer_ , which I absolutely cannot find anywhere,” MK scowls. That hunt had _not_ been fun. “And his publisher is in the UK, and I didn’t want to call them without your ok.”

 

“I’ll call them on Monday morning,” Nim tells her. “Was that the only issue?”

 

“Yeah,” she shrugs, putting aside the dust cloth in favor of the broom, starting at the back of the shop. “Also, Moonhaven Primary School, Hunter’s Green Middle School, and Dove High School sent their reading lists,” she passes that packet over to him. “How soon would those books need to be ordered?”

 

“Mid next week at the latest, just so that we have the books for the anxious and the high achievers,” Nim muses. “Have you read these?”

 

“Most of the stuff for the high school list, yeah. Some for the middle school list, and very few of the elementary,” she doesn’t like the look in Nim’s eyes. “What is it?”

 

“Homework,” he says cheerfully. “Read what you don’t know.”

 

“That could take me days to weeks,” she points out.

 

“School doesn’t start until after Labor Day. You’ve got time.”

 

She sighs. “Let me guess, my job is to assure grumpy kids that these books they have to read aren’t actually terrible?”

 

“Yes,” Nim says gleefully. “I can close up tonight. Your young man is waiting.”

 

“He’s not mine,” MK demurs as she retrieves her jacket, keys, wallet, and phone.

 

Nim’s eyes twinkle. “Are you sure about that?”

 

“Do you know something I don’t?”

 

Nim’s smirk is dripping with smugness. “Maybe. Have a good time tonight!”

 

“Ever feel like everyone you know is plotting against you?” she tells Nod (now in real people clothes) as she exits the bookshop.

 

“That’s called paranoia, and is usually not founded in fact.”

 

She points a finger at him. “Just because you’re paranoid _doesn’t_ mean it doesn’t have a basis. I need to get embroidery silk. Are you coming?”

 

“I forgot you’re crafty,” he comments, “or did you not tell me?”

 

“No, I did. When you were telling me about the art district, I asked about embroidery.”

 

“Oh yeah,” Nod says. “Wait, are they still open?”

 

“They’re open until nine weeknights,” she shakes her head at him. “If you’re determined to be a burr in my side, you’re coming with me.”

 

“I’d like to see you be crafty,” Nod says with that unsettling smile she really doesn’t like. “It means you’re good with your hands.”

 

“Okay, comments like that? Need to stop. I’m never sure if you’re serious.”

 

“Why do you doubt me on that?” Nod turns to look at her, honest confusion on his face.

 

She stops. This is quickly getting into Too Personal For Me To Feel Comfortable Baring My Soul To You territory. “You flirt, but you never follow up on it,” she says, neatly avoiding the real reason. “And you’re always around, but you never make it clear what you want from a liaison, or if you just harass me because I’m new and I’m here.”

 

“Well, as to your first issue,” Nod slides over, tucking her hand in the curve of his elbow and tugging her along. She lets him because this is way public, but she doesn’t know if she could stand to have this conversation in private, “I’ve noticed you have an issue with personal touch--.”

 

“And you seem to ignore it,” she mutters.

 

“—and when this progresses, and it is a _when_ , by the way, I want you to make that move, because it means you’re comfortable with this,” Nod tells her. “As for the second, I promise this isn’t throwaway for me.”

 

“Nod, I’m heading back to New York City,” she reminds him. “January or August, I’m going back. I can’t stay in a place just because of a guy. That never ends well.”

 

“And for the record, I am fully a fan of you going back to the city for school,” he tells her, letting go of her to open the door to ‘The Craft Basket,’ and she goes through, waiting for him to follow her in. “You should do that—get your degree and everything. I would never ask you to stay for me.”

 

“Then if you’re so intent on this, why continue it if we know it’s going to end?”

 

Nod shakes his head. “Do you ever do something for the hell of it, just to see how it goes? Everything ends eventually. Aren’t you _curious_? By the way, embroidery stuff is over here.”

 

There are baskets of embroidery silks in just about every color you can think of, and MK examines them carefully, “It’s not about curiosity. It’s about how much loss I can deal with.”

 

“If you walk through life afraid of what might or could happen, you’ll never experience anything.”

 

“That’s nice, but in case you haven’t noticed, I still haven’t gotten over the death of my mother,” she says furiously in whisper-shout, since the cashier is _way_ too interested in their conversation. How _dare_ he act like she’s saying no is just like any other person who has personal walls up.

 

“Yes, I have noticed,” he retorts, “starting with the fact you never call it what it is.”

 

She turns to glare at him, folding her arms across her chest. “And that is?”

 

“You never call it murder,” he says flatly. “You never acknowledge how harsh it was by not calling it what it is.”

 

“I--.”

 

“Naming things is important,” he persists as she turns back to look at the greens, her heart hammering in her ears. “You’ll never heal from this otherwise. And yes, I recognize that if/when this ends, there could be hurt on multiple sides. But I’m willing to take that chance, MK.”

 

“Why?” she flings at him. “Why me? You’re so proud of this small town you grew up in, why _me_? Am I damaged enough for you to try to save? Is that it?”

 

“No--.”

 

“Because let me tell you, I am not a princess that needs to be saved. I live in the real world, and that means shit happens, but I _deal_ with that shit.”

 

“And that’s why,” Nod says sharply, and he’s genuine again, but she doesn’t know if she can trust him. He flips between flirtatious and genuine so much that she’s never sure who he is. “Because you don’t take any shit, and—I admire that about you. You’re not coy, and you’re not playing with me, and when you have an issue, you _tell_ me. Most people have to work for that.”

 

“I can’t tell if you’re playing with me,” she snaps. “You turn between flirtatious and genuine, and I don’t know which is the real you.”

 

“Has it ever occurred to you I’m being genuinely flirtatious?”

 

“You have a different,” she waves her hand at him, “ _feeling_ from when you’re being flirtatious and when you’re being genuine. That’s why it’s hard to know you.”

 

He catches her hand and presses a kiss to her fingers. “Believe me, I am genuinely flirtatious, but I am also genuine in my desire to know you. You reveal more of yourself when you’re off balance, but if it bothers you, I’ll stop.”

 

“Why do you even care?” she says helplessly.

 

Nod grins. “I told you. This isn’t throwaway for me. But what matters if it’s throwaway to you.”

 

“I don’t do things by halves,” she snaps before she thinks about what she’s saying. “If I’m in this, it means just as much to me as it does to you.”

 

“But there’s still the question of ‘if,’” Nod points out.

 

“I—haven’t made up my mind yet,” she fumbles. She’s lying, and he knows it, but he steps back gracefully.

 

“All right. Have you found the colors you want? I figured we could try again for the dinner thing, though maybe not at the art museum.”

 

“Yeah, I think so,” MK says, grabbing a few shades of green and a pink for fun.

 

Once she’s paid for it, he offers her his hand instead of taking it, and she hesitates before she takes it, but his beam is worth the two seconds of hesitation. They’re passing through the rest of the art district silently—after she’s Patently Bared Her Soul To Him, she’s not sure what to say and he seems okay with the quiet—when he tenses.

 

There’s nothing wrong, not that she can see. There are plenty of people around, just hanging around in groups, talking and everything, but he’s tense, so something has to be wrong.

 

“What is it?” she whispers, clutching his hand. Nod turns, giving the impression they’ve decided to turn on their heels and meander back towards the art museum after all.

 

“Don’t look around,” he says out of the corner of his mouth. “Act naturally.”

 

She’s reminded of Mrs Bennet’s “Everybody behave naturally!” and bites her lips to stifle the giggles. “What is it?”

 

“Not right now,” he says. “I promise I’ll explain later.”

 

Except they never get to later, because a young man (MK would put him between her and Nod’s age) steps right in front of them. He’s got two bigger guys at his back, and the streetlights don’t illuminate them the best. MK _can_ pick out black leather jackets, and the lead guy has a creepy smile, which he has on full blast. “What’s this, a police officer alone?”

 

“I thought they were a communal species,” one of the big guys offers.

 

She raises a brow, but Nod’s attention is locked on the lead guy. Since hers isn’t, she glances over her shoulder and is alarmed by the fact that other guys in black leather jackets have surrounded them. The streetlight hits their gun holsters or knives.

 

She feels like prey.

 

“Let us pass, Dagda,” Nod says tersely. “You don’t want the shitstorm that comes from attacking or killing a police officer.”

 

“You’re in our territory, Nod. You’ve got to respect boundaries.”

 

“Since when is communal space yours?” Nod retorts. “This is neutral ground, always has been.”

 

Dagda steps further into their space, and this enables MK to see him more clearly. His facial features are broad and rough, his forehead dominating his face. He has a cruel mouth and blue eyes, and his hands are hidden in the pockets of his jacket. MK straightens as adrenaline courses through her. She promised herself she’d never feel like prey again.

 

“Not anymore,” Dagda says, grinning. “Who’s this, Nod? A bit prettier than your usual tastes.”

 

MK veils her eyes with her lids, anger starting to burn through her. “Wow, it’s almost like I’m not even here.”

 

Nod squeezes her hand in warning.

 

“Ooh, and she’s feisty too,” Dagda crows, leering at her.

 

MK sets her jaw, tucking her right hand in her pocket. She can feel her keys, and she rolls them between her fingers carefully. “Can we put this into context for a quick sec? Like, not only are you threatening a police officer, you’re also threatening the new girl in town, who also incidentally happens to be young and white.” She feels Nod look at her, but she continues, because she knows how this works. “Nothing would inflame the community more than if you hurt me or kill me, because of a little thing called Missing White Woman Syndrome.”

 

If they’re smart, they’ll back off. She doesn’t know how well this would turn out if it turned into an all-out fistfight. She’s not that great yet, and Nod doesn’t have his gear on him. This could be—really bad.

 

Dagda squints. “What?”

 

“You know, nothing gets the police and community rolling like the kidnapping, assault, or murder of a young pretty white woman,” MK explains, feeling the condescension drip off of her. “You want to provide the community a reason to get rid of you? Hurt me. I _dare_ you.”

 

Nod squeezes her hand more tightly, but she refuses to let this asshole make her feel like prey. She’s never letting that happen to her again.

 

Dagda shrugs. “You said it,” and he punches her, hitting her cheek. She feels the skin break, and blood starts to run down her face as her head clangs with pain.

 

“MK!” Nod shouts, grabbing her and hauling her up. “That’s an assault charge, a battery charge—“

 

He can’t hold onto her and fight off who knows how many of these hooligans there are. She pushes herself away from him, dry heaving (she hasn’t dealt well with facial injuries for a while), leaving him free to kick whatever ass he needs to. Two of the hooligans grab onto her, and she slams the heel of her shoe onto one of their feet, jerking her elbow into the torso of the other. She forces herself to think past the pain as her eye begins to swell—she doesn’t have time for this.

 

They’re at the end of a block. If they can get free of this crush, they can head towards the other end, where there are lights and people.

 

The hooligans let go of her, only for a third one to grab her left arm. She swings her right fist at him, forgetting she’s holding her keys between her fingers. He screams in pain when she hits him in the eye, letting go of her. She freezes, but Nod gets free of the assholes trying to hold him still so Dagda can punch him with a few instrumental kicks to his special places, grabbing her and pulling her along. “Run!” he shouts, shoving aside another leather-clad hooligan, clutching her left hand as they run in tandem down the block. A white car pulls up, and the driver’s window rolls down.

 

“Get in,” Bufo orders, and MK obeys, pulling Nod in after her to the backseat. Nod slams the door shut, locking it, and Bufo speeds off. He passes back a tissue. “Blot your face,” he tells her.

 

MK takes it with murmured thanks, and Nod leans back. “So is this you choosing a side? Finally?”

 

“I didn’t do this for you,” Bufo snaps, taking a right. MK has no idea where they’re going, but her cheek really hurts, but it doesn’t seem like her eye’s injured too badly—the hit was to her cheekbone, and once she treats it with ice, the eye swelling should go right down.

 

“But Dagda will know--.”

 

“This is Dagda’s car,” Bufo interrupts. “Off the record, Daddy made me soup it up at no charge. Instead on pinning this on me, he’ll think one of his people did it. You okay, MK?”

 

“Been better,” she tells him. “Thank you, for that.”

 

“So did you hotwire this, or have a copy of the key made?”

 

In the rearview mirror, she sees Bufo’s mouth twist. “You think I’m about to tell you that?”

 

“Hope springs eternal,” Nod shrugs. “So why did you help us?”

 

“I owed MK. Consider this evening the account.”

 

MK frowns—or tries to. Quirking her eyebrows means moving her cheeks, and that _hurts_. “How did you owe me?”

 

“Rosalia loves the books I got for her. She always wants more stories than I read to her.”

 

Ah. It’s a dad and daughter thing. MK clears her throat. “It’s cool.”

 

“I wouldn’t walk around in Boggan territory alone,” Bufo cautions, cutting off another driver, “not after this, for either of you. Dagda won’t forget this, and he doesn’t have Dad’s smarts.”

 

“Doesn’t this evening prove that? And since when is the art district Boggan territory anyway?”

 

“Since Dagda decided it was,” Bufo says grimly. “That boy doesn’t have the sense he was born with.”

 

“You know, when Mandrake figures this out, he’ll be after you,” Nod points out. “Are you sure you’re not picking a side?”

 

“What Mandrake wants, Mandrake gets,” Bufo says harshly. “I value my head, and I doubt his son will tell him of this little adventure, because you got away. Of course, you have grounds to arrest him.”

 

“Mandrake’ll pay his bail within twenty-four hours.”

 

“Dagda’s dumb enough to let something stick,” Bufo takes a left. “Still, I’d be careful, and MK, don’t ice your bruise until after you’ve made your statement. Let the pictures speak for themselves.”

 

MK nods slowly. “Okay. What are you going to do with the car?”

 

Bufo snorts. “Again, off the record, I’ll give it to my people. In twenty four hours, even I wouldn’t recognize it.”

 

“Wouldn’t your people tell Mandrake about this?”

 

“I mean _my people_ ,” Bufo emphasizes. “The people who wouldn’t squeal if their lives depended on it. And Nod—try to leave my name out of this as much as possible in the official report.”

 

He pulls to a stop outside of the police station. The way he drove—MK’s pretty sure that was done to get pursuers off their trail. “Get rid of Dagda,” Bufo warns as Nod helps her out. “That’ll be how you get rid of Mandrake.”

 

“It sounds like you’re picking a side after all,” Nod tell him.

 

Bufo rolls his eyes. “Nice try.” He speeds off, and MK lurches against Nod, her cheek blazing with pain.

 

“That was really dumb,” Nod tells her as they walk into the mostly-empty police department. “Challenging Dagda like that? What were you thinking?”

 

“Trying to get him to think, mostly,” MK grunts as they approach Finn, who looks concerned at them. “Besides, Nod, they’d beat you up and maybe kill you, but did you see how Dagda looked at me? I’d be lucky if that’s all they did.”

 

“What happened?” Finn asks sharply.

 

“Altercation with Boggans. Apparently Dagda’s decided they’re holding the art district. MK got caught in the crossfire,” Nod indicates her swollen cheek.

 

“I did defend myself though,” she tacks on.

 

“I’m going to need to get full statements from both of you,” Finn says, his jaw set. “Let me call Ronin, get him in here.”

 

MK sits down in the indicated chair as Finn makes the necessary calls, pulling the yellow legal pad towards her. She blocks out the rest of the world while she writes down what happened, right down to quoting Missing White Woman Syndrome, and as she writes, she realizes that she punched a guy in the eye with her keys, and she starts to shake, especially after the realization that it’s been a month exactly since her mom died. She didn’t even remember until now.

 

That’s when someone drapes a blanket around her, and she looks up to realize Aisling and Ronin have joined them in the—she peers at the clock—thirty minutes since she started writing. Aisling places a cup of tea next to her and Ronin’s deep in conversation with Nod. “Are you all right?”

 

“I punched a guy in the eye with my keys. I did that. I grabbed my keys because I thought I needed to protect myself, but somehow keys and eyes never connected,” she shivers, drawing the blanket around her. “I think I blinded him.”

 

“The sketch artist is on her way,” Aisling says, placing a careful hand on her shoulder. Her brown hair’s in a loose ponytail, the loosest MK’s ever seen her. She feels guilt pinch her at the realization Aisling must have been enjoying her Friday night off, especially once MK realizes she’s in jeans and a windbreaker. “And Ronin’s already called Judge Mable about a warrant, we should be hearing about that in an hour or so.”

 

“Will they arrest Dagda and his group?” MK asks, gulping the tea. It’s warm but not too hot, and it’s chai. The cinnamon and cardamom warm her down to her toes.

 

“It’s a pretty ironclad case,” Aisling shifts, looking away from MK.

 

“But?”

 

“Mable owns a few businesses.”

 

“And?”

 

“Those businesses are in Boggan territory.”

 

“Isn’t there another judge?” MK asks, putting two and two together.

 

“There’s Judge Dike, but she’s on vacation until July 1st, and currently unreachable.”

 

“But—this--.”

 

“I know,” Aisling says softly. “We may have to wait, but the evidence won’t go away.”

 

“I blinded somebody,” MK says blankly. Her keys are in her pocket, but she’s afraid to look at them. Blood and other stuff will be on them.

 

“It was self-defense,” Aisling comforts.

 

“That doesn’t make it right.”

 

“No, perhaps not, but if he had not chosen to follow Dagda’s orders and attack you, you never would have been put into the position of defending yourself. His actions, and the consequences, are on him.”

 

“Does that help you?”

 

Aisling grimaces. “Not as much as I would like.”

 

Finn sits down. “Mable’s deliberating. He says he wants to review the case, but since his family’s going away tomorrow morning and won’t be back until Monday, we need to hold off on sending him the evidence until Tuesday.”

 

“Of course,” Ronin sighs, picking up Nod’s legal pad. “Have you finished?” he asks her.

 

She nods, wrapping the blanket securely around herself. “We’re going to take pictures of your bruise,” Ronin tells her, “and I’m getting a doctor over here to check it out. It’s just a bruise, but the side of your face and whatever imprints we can get will help back up your claim that it was Dagda. He’s right handed, so--.”

 

“The fact that it’s on the left side of my face helps,” MK says quietly. “Yeah, I know.”

 

“We’ll try to get you home soon,” he promises.

 

MK looks at Nod, who’s watching her carefully. “Are we ever going to have dinner?”

 

“Sounds like a plan,” Finn says immediately. “Anybody have objections to Chinese?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the drama is officially a go.
> 
> MK has a dislike of the media. This will be explained further on.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the love for John Donne, ever.
> 
> General trigger warning for blood, eye-related trauma, victimization, ableist slurs, violence.
> 
> soundtrack for this chapter: breaking down (florence + the machine), the voice (celtic woman), hello little girl (into the woods), let go (frou frou).

**CHAPTER FOUR**

He’s always liked having Saturdays off. Prior to, well, _people_ moving in, he’d spend Wednesday with his mom, but Saturdays were his, to work on his apartment (it’s not spectacularly shitty, but his weekly working is the only reason why it’s not), to do his laundry, and then he usually goes out with some guys from his graduating class at the Academy for dinner. He doesn’t drink, they do, they watch a game (it...doesn’t really matter what sport it is—they’ll watch it if it’s on), and then he’s in bed, because he has to work Sunday.

 

This Saturday he’s working, because he had Sunday off last weekend, and he kinda wishes he wasn’t. MK had a bad scare last night, and he hated that she had to defend herself. He was stupid, and he won’t do that again.

 

Aisling took MK home last night while Nod debriefed for Ronin and Finn. Man, that had been long. Apart from bloody knuckles, he hadn’t been touched, but Dagda had _punched_ MK.

 

He feels anger stir, but he tamps down on it. He can’t give into his grudges.

 

He’ll just ask to be a part of the group that inevitably arrests Dagda.

 

Saturday is quiet, and since he’s still on desk duty (damnit Ronin), apart from logging, organizing, and writing reports, he has nothing to do. He’s up to date on his firearms certification, and while he’s going to the free-for-all practice session tonight, he’s got at least six hours until that happens.

 

He sighs, and pulls out his book from his desk drawer. He’s on top of everything, so he might as well read. It’s John Donne’s _Devotions on Emergent Occasions_ , bought on Nim’s recommendation. The language is hard, but when he manages to get through something and realize what the message is, it’s a nice feeling, so he keeps on.

 

Today it’s ‘Meditation XVII,’ and he sits back in his chair, pen at the ready. He struggles with the first two paragraphs (he think he gets what Donne is trying to say, but damnit, can’t you just _say_ it), until he gets to the third paragraph:

 

‘ _No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as was as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were; any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.’_

And—then he gets it. He gets why MK loves John Donne. He’d liked the poetry, because a guy using ridiculous lines to try to get into a pretty girl’s pants? Yeah, that’s great.

 

But this—this is bread, and air, and _life_ , wrapped up in words. This is their department’s philosophy, codified by a dead old guy several centuries ago. He gets, now, how you can get passionate about ink on paper. This is what living is about.

 

He realizes he has goosebumps, and he swallows, continuing into the last paragraph, a little breathless with how much this has affected him. He’ll have to tell MK the next time they talk that she’s corrupted him. He’s looking forward to that conversation.

 

A little bit of John Donne is good for the soul. Too much, and it’s the difference between warming your hands and shoving them into the fire, so after another Meditation, he ditches the Donne for his notes on his suspicions of Mandrake, Dagda, and how Bufo plays a role in all of this.

 

It’s something Ronin taught him a while ago, get all of the players on paper and track their movements, and after a while, patterns will start showing up. He’s been staring at his notes off and on in the last couple of days, looking for patterns.

 

He hasn’t found it yet, but he will. He has to.

 

\--

 

MK sleeps in on Saturday. Her body still lingers with aches (practicing ballet and modern on Thursday and Friday mornings had been productive, but her body’s still lodging its protest as moving in ways she hasn’t in a month--which means she's not going to practice on Friday mornings anymore), but when she wakes up on Saturday morning, the heat there but not stifling, she feels—good. Better than she has in a while, despite the nasty bruise on her cheek (the doctor from Moonhaven General had looked it over and said she’d gotten off lucky, with more force and her cheekbone would have fractured). Even the guilt over likely blinding that one guy is distant.

 

It’ll come back, but for right now, she feels good. She wasn’t a victim. That means a _lot._

 

She wakes up slowly, staring at the white ceiling of her room. Her covers actually cover her, which means she hasn’t twisted them in a nightmare she doesn’t remember.

 

She gets up, throwing aside the blue blankets and stretching. Her body groans but complies, just like she did in Algebra, and her windowsill is warm with the sunshine.

 

She decides to clean the kitchen since she’s in such a good mood, and she’s in the middle of scouring the sink with Comet when she hears, “This isn’t throwaway for me.”

 

She misses the corner, and hits her elbow on the counter. Biting her lip (the funny bone is _so_ inaccurately named), she thinks back on the conversation she and Nod had last night.

 

He says he’s invested in this, but the only reasons he gave for it is that she doesn’t take any shit and she doesn’t play him. That’s certainly true, but if he’s invested in this, there has be something more. Did he feel like she would be uncomfortable if he said he was attracted to her?

 

Something doesn’t quite ring true, and she worries at it like a hangnail while she finishes up in the kitchen. He didn’t mention anything personal, and she doesn’t know if he said it like that because he was afraid of spooking her (and doesn’t _that_ piss her off, because she’s not a jumpy horse), or if that’s because it’s _all_ he feels for her. She doesn’t take any shit, so maybe it’s a challenge for him to see if he—

 

‘Maybes’ and ‘ifs’ buy no bread, her mom chimes in her head. Don’t judge him until he gets a fair hearing.

 

She growls at herself, washing her hands and the microfiber cloth clean of the dust.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry!” her dad yelps, and she turns toward him.

 

“I’m not mad at _you_ ,” she explains, looking him over. He’s got dirt on his face, and his clothes are dirty—he must’ve been out in the woods. “Just—mad at myself.”

 

Her dad’s face softens. “I get that. Oh, your bruise,” he mourns, leaving his camera on the table and walking over to her. “Have you iced it?”

 

“Yeah, that’s why there’s no swelling,” she says, ducking under his hand. He retracts his hand, looking her over. “It hurts, but it’ll heal. I’ve had bruises before.”

 

“Is Dagda under arrest?”

 

“The judge is waffling,” she grumbles. “I don’t know why they couldn’t just arrest him, but whatever.”

 

Dad shrugs. “I’m not a lawyer,” he says, ducking around her to get into the refrigerator. “I wouldn’t know. How’s Nod?”

 

Dad has been _very_ interested in their—whatever, in that it's happening, not the details of the happening. “He told that this isn’t throwaway,” she grumps, folding the dishtowel and putting it on the handle of the oven. “He then went on to tell me that why he chose me, of all people, because I don’t take any sh—crap, and I don’t play with him. Nothing else.”

 

Dad stares at her. “That’s bad?”

 

“It sounds like I’m a challenge to him, not a person,” she tells him, feeling her grumpiness rise. “Like, what does it take for him to get me or something?”

 

“I don’t know if that was his aim,” Dad offers. “He can misspeak. What was the question?”

 

She puts her hand down on the counter, tossing her head. “I asked him why he chose me, whether it was because I was damaged or needing rescue or something like that? He told me that’s why.”

 

“Perhaps he was looking for something that would not offend you,” Dad says gingerly, “since it sounds like you were already angry with him, and he misspoke.”

 

“There were better words,” she grouses.

 

“Maybe, but you can be intimidating when you’re mad,” her dad points out. “And—maybe you’re trying to be mad at him, because you weren’t ready for him to say something like that.”

 

“Why would I try to be mad at him?” she snorts, “He makes it so easy.”

 

“Because it’s easier to be mad than to be honest?” Dad pushes his glasses up on his nose. He looks sad. “I know that feeling.”

 

She does _not_ want to hear about the trainwreck that was her mom and dad’s marriage. “Yeah, whatever.”

 

Dad watches her head back upstairs, and she doesn’t want to admit it, but maybe she thinks about what he said more than she wants to admit.

 

\--

 

Nim arrives early (or maybe he just hasn’t gone to bed yet, but Ronin _is_ not thinking about Nim lives his life), and he brings a fruit platter. Tara exclaims her affection for him, falling on the pineapple and orange slices with greed.

 

MK shows up a little bit later, the bruise on her cheek standing out in shades of purple and green. It hasn’t started to yellow out on the edges, but in a couple of days, it will. “Am I late?” she asks anxiously, hearing Nim and Tara laugh in the living room.

 

“No, Nim’s early,” he tells her, leading her in, “or he may not have gone to bed yet.”

 

MK winces as he closes the door. “That—kinda sounds like him, not going to lie.”

 

“I am not judging,” he says.

 

She laughs slightly. “ _Same_. Are we doing the grilling thing today?”

 

“No, we got take-out from the Italian place,” Tara tells her as they enter the living room. “We had a tough night last night.”

 

Ronin keeps his face straight, but Tara had to get up multiple times last night to go to the bathroom or dealing with Braxton Hicks. They’re both tired. “There’s no pork,” he tells Nim, offering his hands to Tara, who takes them and heaves herself up.

 

“Oh good,” Nim nods, greeting MK with a smile.

 

“You don’t eat pork?” MK blinks at him as they seat themselves, and Ronin finds MK on his left side this time, since Nim’s seated on Tara’s right. Tara gestures for the apricot chicken, and when she nods, Ronin serves her.

 

“No,” Nim shrugs. “Call it a side effect of reading Upton Sinclair.”

 

“That’s fair,” MK grimaces, taking the apricot chicken from Ronin.

 

“We are not discussing the merits of Upton Sinclair at dinner,” Tara decrees, cutting up her chicken carefully. “He’s interesting but not at the table.”

 

“So tell me, read any John Donne lately?” Nim helps himself to linguini, waggling his eyebrows at MK.

 

Ronin raises his eyebrows. Nim’s trying to tease, but MK just seems confused. Tara hides a smile in her hand—she knows more about this than she’s willing to say. “Not exactly,” MK looks from Nim to Ronin. “Why?”

 

“Just curious.”

 

“That’s oddly specific for curiosity,” MK points out, “Can I please have the linguini?”

 

Ronin passes it to her. As she ladles herself some of the noodles, Tara chimes, “Well, what _have_ you been reading?”

 

“Jane Austen,” MK says instantly, reddening a little.

 

“I love _Persuasion_ ,” Tara says, eating little bites of chicken when Ronin Looks at her. “I love her other works, but _Persuasion_ just—speaks to me. Maybe it’s just because it’s about older people trying again, but it’s my favorite.”

 

“It’s my favorite,” MK admits, blinking quickly. “My mom read it to me when I was little.”

 

“I like _Emma_ ,” Nim says, stabbing his fork into a swirl of linguini. “I find the plot to be hilarious.”

 

“Emma’s crazy,” MK shakes her head. “I don’t get her. I mean, she’s hilarious, but I don’t get her.”

 

“Of course, I tried to get Ronin to read _Pride and Prejudice_ exactly once,” Tara muses, squeezing his hand with a tucked smile. “He got to chapter three and gave up. He _did_ enjoy the Colin Firth adaptation.”

 

“I did too,” MK blushes, looking down at her chicken.

 

“I can guess why,” Nim laughs.

 

“Well. It’s not the _only_ reason.”

 

“Moving right along,” Ronin says, extricating his hand from Tara’s. “How’s the book business, Nim?”

 

“Well enough,” Nim shrugs, gesturing with his fork. “We got the reading lists on Friday—lot of good titles on there.”

 

“Like what?” Tara asks with interest, eating the rest of her chicken.

 

“Well, the elementary list has _Ella Enchanted,_ ” Nim lists off, “and the middle school one features _Ender’s Game_.”

 

“Hasn’t that been a staple for the last five years or so?” Tara asks, becoming Mayor Sylva in an eye blink.

 

“Unfortunately,” Nim complains. MK’s silent on Ronin’s other side, eating and listening. She seems more open this week. “I’m getting tired of giving Orson Scott Card business.”

 

“I’ve been talking to Cindy Brown about that,” Tara says, frowning, “but she refuses to budge on it, since apparently it’s a title ‘both boys and girls can get into!’ Aren’t there other sci-fi or fantasy that can appeal to others? I’ve been trying to get her to consider Tamora Pierce, but since those books deal with ‘girl issues’ realistically, Cindy won’t touch them.”

 

“I’ve been thinking of setting up something for the young children, like a Story Hour or something,” Nim says, leaning on his elbows. “Once school starts, I mean. I’d have to get Cindy’s permission to get it into the schools, though.”

 

“So you thought you’d persuade me and get me to persuade Cindy?” Tara arches her brows, and Ronin detects amusement from MK, who continues to eat without comment.

 

“Oh no, my plot has been uncovered,” Nim says dramatically, taking the chicken platter from MK.

 

“I’ll consider it,” Tara says at last. “Cindy raises my blood pressure, and I’m under strict orders from my doctor not to stress myself this close to the birth. She’s afraid there’ll be complications.”

 

“By all means, wait until after the birth,” Nim says hastily. “It’s not that important.”

 

“You’ve been very quiet, Mary Katherine,” Tara turns. “Nothing to say, not even on the merits of Orson Scott Card?”

 

MK shrugs. “I read _Ender’s Game_ like every other seventh grader. It disturbed me, so I try not to think about it.”

 

“Fair enough. Have you contacted NYU, since you’ve managed to find a practice space?”

 

“How good are your spies?” MK complains.

 

“I’m very good with people,” Tara smiles. “They’re willing to gossip to me. So, have you?”

 

“Yes,” MK gripes. “They’re perfectly happy to wait until next August for me to join them.”

 

“How _will_ you survive a year in our little town?” Tara teases, sipping her water as she kicks Ronin lightly on the table.

 

Ronin coughs into his hand, glaring at his wife. She smiles angelically at him, before turning her gaze back on MK.

 

“I don’t know,” MK says glumly. “I mean, I could move back to Westchester after my eighteenth birthday, but—”

 

“Too many memories?” Tara inquires.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Of course, the company must be nice too,” Tara remarks.

 

Ronin’s interested in the way MK’s face turns pink. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Of course not,” Tara agrees, smiling benignly. “Are you trying out for _Swan Lake_?”

 

“I’m thinking about it,” MK says, ducking her head and blushing—that’s an interesting reaction. An interesting _guilty_ reaction.

 

“That would be very interesting,” Nim comments, smiling at her. “That’s one of my favorite ballets.”

 

“Mine too,” Tara adds.

 

“With answers like that, how can I not?” MK mutters, putting her utensils on the side of her plate.

 

Tara kicks Ronin lightly under the table again. He glares at her, but she blows him a kiss. “Come into the living room with me,” Tara invites, holding her hands up to Ronin.

 

MK nods, stepping out of the way while Ronin helps his wife up. “We’ll do girl talk,” Tara adds once she’s up. “I’ve missed that.”

 

Ronin doesn’t snort, but it’s a contained effort. Tara spends more time with women now than she has in the past few years combined. She’s getting at something.

 

Tara twinkles her eyes at him as she leads MK into the living room, and Nim volunteers with clean up. “Why are you baiting her with John Donne?” Ronin demands, stacking the take-out dishes.

 

“Nod stopped by on Thursday morning, bought some of his meditations,” Nim explains, clearly holding back laughter. “He said she convinced him, but I’m starting to think that was a fabrication to stay gossip.”

 

“Nod is reading John Donne for her,” Ronin repeats. He thinks about it, and finds he has no objection. “Well, good for him.”

 

“Ronin, this is the kid who’s only ever read things because they were on the school-mandated list,” Nim hisses, his eyes wide with excitement.

 

“Aren’t you reading into this a little too much?”

 

“No,” Nim beams. “Because Nod said some _other_ things while he was looking for Donne.” He waits, and when Ronin doesn’t jump for the bait, Nim deflates. “Aren’t you interested?”

 

“Let Nod’s flirtation be his own,” Ronin says dismissively, putting up the dishwasher door now that all of the dishes have been put inside. “He deserves privacy for it.”

 

Nim very clearly is biting his tongue, but he’s not saying anything more, and they re-enter the living room in time to hear MK say, “Well, my mom and I loved attending Broadway shows together.”

 

Nim sits opposite MK in an armchair, and Ronin joins Tara on the couch. She buries her feet under his thighs immediately, replying, “Oh yes, but I admit that the latest plays don’t necessarily have me interested.”

 

MK shrugs. “In the past year or so, I haven’t seen anything.”

 

“Nothing’s caught your fancy?”

 

“The last one I saw was _Book of Mormon_ ,” MK says, looking from Tara to Nim. “Then my classes got heavier in terms of work, plus my TA-ing and dance, so I figured I could live.”

 

“Were you taking AP classes?”

 

“Plenty of them, by the time I graduated. Passed all of them, too,” MK smiles proudly, and from what Ronin remembers of _his_ AP classes, passing them was harder than passing the class. He gets her pride.

 

“So does that mean you don’t have to take your freshman classes?”

 

“Yep! Except for math. Math and I,” MK grimaces, “we don’t entirely see eye to eye.”

 

“Ooh yes,” Tara laughs, squeezing Ronin’s arm. “I _do_ know that feeling. Intimately.”

 

They chat for a bit longer before Tara gracefully excuses herself to take a nap, and Nim goes home for a similar reason. As Ronin is walking MK to the door, she says, “This was nice, thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome. How’s your bruise?”

 

She grimaces. “Achy, but survivable. It just hurts to move my face.”

 

“Are you taking painkillers?”

 

“Only at night,” she shrugs, “since I roll around. That is _not_ the nicest way to wake up, in case you were wondering.”

 

“I know the feeling,” he tells her.

 

She half-smiles. “I bet.”

 

“Do you want me to take you home?” He glances out the door. The Mayor’s mansion is in the residential part of Moonhaven, and it’s a straight shot from there back to her father’s home, but if she doesn’t feel safe walking, he’s happy to give her a ride.

 

“Nah, I got this,” she shows him a black spray canister. “Got my pepper spray and everything. Or was I not supposed to tell you that?”

 

“It’s all right. Stay safe.”

 

“I will, and thanks.”

 

As he closes the door, he hears, “Ronin?”

 

He turns and walks up the stairs (he should really get Tara comfortable on the couch, walking up the stairs will be too hard for her now), and he opens their bedroom door, “Yes?”

 

“I don’t want to sleep alone,” Tara says, shoving aside the blankets to make room for him.

 

“Very well, my lady, since you phrased it so politely,” he says, face straight, as he unbuttons his shirt and pants.

 

Once he’s in bed, she rolls toward him carefully. “I don’t like sleeping alone,” she complains once she’s tucked into him. “I don’t sleep as well.”

 

“Is that you angling to get me to work from home until your due date?”

 

“No, you should be in,” she sighs, lacing their fingers together over the swell of her stomach. “But I wish you wouldn’t work so late. I know everything’s going on, but I don’t want you to miss this either,” under their hands, he feels the baby kick as if to punctuate it.

 

He kisses the back of her neck. “I’ll work on that.”

 

She half turns toward him, so that their eyes meet. “Please.”

 

\--

 

He likes Mondays, against all odds. Maybe it’s because Monday isn’t the first day of his week, like it is for some people, or maybe it’s because Monday seems like the start to a new week of possibilities, but he’s never minded Mondays.

 

Case in point: on Monday, he can go bother MK at work. He feels strange about showing up at her house once he gets off work, since she hasn’t invited him there. It’s coming, but for right now, his range of bothering is officially limited to the bookshop.

 

She’s wearing blue today, and since she normally wears some variation of black, pink, or grey, he wonders if it’s significant. Her hair, as always, is pulled back in the ponytail, and he pushes away the thought of undoing it and running his hands through it. It looks like it’d be soft, with the way it curls slightly in the ponytail.

 

The bruise stands out on the paleness of her face, and he hates it, and hates Dagda even more. It’s started to yellow where the bruise is near her eye, but for the most part, it’s still purple and green. She’s reading something, a longer tome than her usual, and when he enters, opening the door carefully so as not to disturb the bell, she doesn’t look up.

 

Mission accomplished.

 

Before he startles her, he checks to see that her knees aren’t under the desk. They aren’t. When she jumps, she won’t bang them on the wooden counter.

 

He wonders what she would do if he bought Jane Austen today. Would she kiss him? The thought is enticing enough that he grabs _Pride and Prejudice_ (please be awesome), and heads toward her. “Hey, so I’d like to make a purchase?”

 

Sure enough, she jumps, and he bites back the cackle. “Don’t _do_ that,” she scolds, putting a bookmark into whatever she’s reading now. “Seriously, don’t.”

 

“How’s your?” he indicates her bruise, and she rolls her eyes.

 

“Contrary to popular belief, this is _not_ the first bruise I’ve ever received, nor the first bruise I’ve ever had on my face. I was in dance and worked with partners. Being dropped was a thing that happened.”

 

“Was it on purpose?”

 

“Back down the rumbling, boy,” she orders, standing up to get to the register, “Our teacher made sure they knew she wasn’t happy.”

 

Something’s not quite right. She won’t meet his eyes, and while he can tell she isn’t lying about the partner thing, she is hiding something from him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

 

“Oh, nothing’s wrong,” she says, lying through her teeth. Sometimes he lets her lie because it makes her feel better. This time—no.

 

“No, something’s wrong. What happened?”

 

She slams her book down. “When you look at me, do you see a person?”

 

“Literally or figuratively?” Bad move, he realizes. Terminal foot in mouth strikes again.

 

She honestly looks like she’s about to hit him. “Nod!”

 

“Okay, okay. I do see you as a person. Why is this a question?”

 

“Then why did you make me sound like a challenge you wanted to win?”

 

He wants to laugh. _This_ is her issue? However, he does have enough self-preservation to know if he laughs, he deserves whatever’s coming to him. His mother didn’t raise a fool. “Well, you _are_ challenging,” he says, agreeably, he thinks. “But I like that about you.”

 

He must’ve said something wrong, because MK’s eyes are spitting green fire at him. “In addition to lots of other things,” he says hastily. “That’s not even near the top. I promise.”

 

“Oh?” there is a _world_ of danger in MK’s tone. Somewhere, he took a wrong step. What was it? “Like _what?_ ”

 

“Your eyes?” he says desperately. “They’re really pretty, and, um, I like how passionate you get about books, even if I don’t understand. And, uh, I’m buying Jane Austen, because you like her, and even if I don’t know why, I’m willing to give her a shot?” His panic ratchets up several notches when she comes around the counter, with her arms still folded, and he’s so preoccupied with defusing her anger that he doesn’t notice her eyes aren’t angry at him any more. “Like, I’m sure there’s something in this book I’ll like, even if I’m just laughing at all of these stuffy English people, and—what are you doing?”

 

“Shut up,” she sighs, grabbing his shirt and pulling him down. He’s surprised right up until she kisses him, and it takes him a moment to realize that _she_ is kissing _him_ , and once he realizes what’s going on, he _moves_.

 

He slides a hand onto the back of her neck and the other onto the small of her back, tugging her into the curve of his body. She makes a small noise against his mouth, before licking the seam of his lips. He approves, and opens his mouth to indicate said approval, but he’s surprised when she bites his lip instead, pulling back slowly and releasing his lip with a ‘pop.’ When she meets his eyes again, she’s flushed, and he’s pretty sure he’s not much better. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” she tells him, patting his cheek. “Couldn’t resist.”

 

“Speaking of can’t resisting,” he murmurs, pulling her chin back up. This time he takes control of the kiss, crowding her against the wooden counter. She makes a deep noise of approval as he sweeps his tongue past her lips to touch the roof of her mouth, and she wraps her leg around his hip loosely. He groans at the contact, but he keeps his hands above the waist and away from her chest. This isn’t the right place for that, or the right time.

 

She breaks away from him, and the place where he keeps his male pride straightens when he sees her gasping. “Okay, this is nice, but this needs to be less public,” she tells him between breaths.

 

He doesn’t want to let go of her, she feels just right in his arms, but she’s right, and while the kissing is nice, this is her place of employment. He steps away, and she goes back behind the counter. He tries not to think of the counter as a metaphor for their relationship.

 

Keyword is ‘tries.’

 

“So I managed to get you to consider _Pride and Prejudice_?” she says lightly as she rings him up. The place where he keeps his male pride swells even more when he sees that her lips are bruised slightly.  “You know, if you’ve read it, you’re doing better than Ronin on that front.”

 

“What?”

 

“He couldn’t finish _Pride and Prejudice_ ,” MK confirms with a sly twist to her lips. “Jury’s still out of the others, and he has seen the adaptations, but he couldn’t read it.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Tara confirmed.”

 

“Huh,” he muses, watching her package the book carefully. Her fingers are long, and thin, and watching her crease the paper and wrap the book up makes his mouth dry at the thought of what _else_ her fingers could do.

 

Okay, he needs to take a step back. He’s becoming a perv.

 

Hard not to be around her, though. Finding out she danced made a _lot_ of sense when it comes to how she moves.

 

“Down boy,” she drawls, handing him the bag.

 

“What, no kiss goodbye?” He’s pushing his luck, but he’s willing to take that jump.

 

She ducks her head, but she’s smiling. “Are we saying goodbye?”

 

“Fine, a ‘see you later’ kiss?”

 

“Now you’re pushing it,” she accuses, but she leans across the counter and—he tenses in anticipation—kisses him on the cheek. “See you later,” she says cheekily, leaning back.

 

“Tease,” he accuses.

 

“You love it,” her tone is flippant.

 

“Yep,” he says more sincerely than her tone warrants. Her eyes widen, but she does that shutter thing where she chooses to believe what he’s saying is _only_ relevant to the topic at hand. She does that a lot.

 

“See you later.”

 

“I’ll be here,” he promises, heading back to work.

 

\--

 

“Would you care to tell me,” Mandrake says very carefully, “why you not only decided to stake out territory that was intended to be neutral, but you also decided to assault the _one_ person I told you to leave alone?”

 

Dagda shifts. “It seemed like the right moment.”

 

Mandrake tries not to sigh. “What have I always told you? Only take—”

 

“What you can keep,” Dagda says glumly. “Since we have more numbers, I thought that we could.”

 

“It’s too close to the police station,” Mandrake contradicts, “and it is a main thoroughfare, so that the good citizens of Moonhaven who normally would avoid us are forced to deal with us. What else have I always told you?”

 

“That we keep our business out of the eye of the citizens.”

 

“So tell me again—why did you act so rashly?”

 

Dagda rubs the back of his neck. His son is, God forgive him, more of a follower than a leader. Someone talked his son into this. He wants to know whom. “I needed to build my own reputation beyond being your son,” Dagda finally says.

 

Mandrake stares at his son. “Excuse me?”

 

“I don’t get any respect from them except when you’re with me,” Dagda explains, grabbing a chair and sitting down. “I hear them laugh about me behind your back, how I’m weak and a daddy’s boy and that I never earn anything on my own.”

 

Mandrake closes his eyes. Insecurity causes more mistakes than poor planning. “So no one put you up to this?”

 

“No!” Dagda sounds appalled at the very thought. “No, I did this myself. I couldn’t bring it to you, because you would have shot it down.”

 

“And assaulting young Miss Kennedy?”

 

Dagda scowls. “She dared me. In front of everyone. I had to.”

 

Dagda chooses the men he runs with. He allows himself to be so influenced.

 

This time, Mandrake doesn’t hold back the sigh. “I _ordered_ you to leave her alone.”

 

“She blinded Michael!”

 

“ _After_ he threatened her. How is that going to look to a judge and jury? Poor, traumatized girl who’s grieving the violent murder of her mother who blinded a Boggan thug when he threatened her?”

 

“We’ve got great lawyers--.”

 

“That is not the point,” he finally snaps. “If it’s open and shut, it doesn’t matter how good your lawyer is. You threatened an off-duty police officer and assaulted a woman. Do you know how many charges that is? Were you aware that there are city cameras that got the entire thing? Robert Mable is stalling on the arrest warrant, but it will come, Dagda. Do you know why Ronin Vigile hasn’t been able to pin anything on me for years, despite his near-constant trying?”

 

“You make sure you’re not linked to anything.”

 

“Exactly,” Mandrake growls, standing up and moving to his son. Dagda looks at the floor as he stalks toward him. “You see, I know what the law is. I know where the grey areas are. That is always where I operate. I can never be linked to anything. Remember that.” He shoves his son lightly, so that Dagda meets his eyes. “Fix this. Pull your men out of the art district, and fix this issue.”

 

“How?”

 

Mandrake claps his son on the shoulder. “You want to build a reputation? Here’s where you can start.”

 

Dagda nods. “I won’t let you down.”

 

“I know you won’t.”

 

\--

 

“You know, the kid’s done good work for the past couple of weeks,” Finn comments, leaning on Ronin’s door. “Don’t you think he can get out of the doghouse?”

 

“He hasn’t entirely proved to me he’s learned the lesson,” Ronin looks at Finn over the rims of his reading glasses. “The point wasn’t that he wasn’t doing good work. The point was that he’s not a team player.”

 

“Fair enough,” Finn raises his hands. “Hey, I’ve got an appointment with the good Doctor tomorrow, to take out the stitches.”

 

“I am aware,” Ronin says, going back to his reports. “Why are you mentioning this?”

 

“I’m not going to be able to lead the class tomorrow night,” Finn swings into the room on his crutches. “I’ve tapped Aisling, just thought you should know. I’m going to be pretty useless after that.”

 

“Ah yes, your general reaction to going to the doctor in general,” Ronin murmurs, frowning at the latest report. “What’s taking Mable so long to get back with the warrant?”

 

“He’s not back from vacation?” there’s an odd note in Finn’s voice, and it makes Ronin pay full attention. “That’s weird.”

 

“I thought he was. I sent a courier to his home today, and she told me that he got it.”

 

“You send Annalise?”

 

“Yeah.” Ronin looks over his second in command. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Well, I got a little bird today that told me Mable never came home from vacation. He’s still in the Hamptons.”

 

“Annalise wouldn’t lie to me.”

 

“No, she wouldn’t,” Finn mutters. “Wait, was he actually there, or did she give it to his housekeeper and the housekeeper said she’d get it to him?”

 

“Good question. Annalise? Can you join us please?”

 

Annalise sticks her head in. “What can I help you with?”

 

“Did you give the package of evidence to Mable’s housekeeper?”

 

“Yes, she told me Mable would be back later today.”

 

“Did she say when?”

 

Annalise shakes her head. “Just that he would be back today.” She looks from Ronin to Finn. “He’s not coming back today, is he?”

 

“No,” Finn tells her. “He isn’t.”

 

“Goddamnit,” Annalise breathes. She comes into the office fully. “When is he expected back?”

 

“Don’t know,” Finn says. “My little bird says he intends to stay in the Hamptons until Dike’s come back.”

 

“He’s a coward,” Ronin rumbles.

 

“Does this surprise anyone? Let’s be real,” Finn says bitterly. “Since he lost his daughter in the Iraq War, he’s not about to do anything to jeopardize his son.”

 

Ronin lets his head fall onto the desk. There are no easy answers.

 

\--

 

MK checks the time. 5:30 on Wednesday. It’s been a good week, she thinks. The people who’ve come in have only come in for books, not to goggle. She and Nod are practically official (she blushes at the thought of his kisses), and Dad’s been better than usual. Even her bruise is starting to yellow. Everything’s going great.

 

Which is of course cue for Dagda and his hooligans to show up while she’s checking the adult fiction and straightening it up.

 

The little bell dings, and she turns around to start her spiel. “Hi, welcome to--,” she finds herself staring down a switchblade.

 

“I think I got it,” Dagda says, replacing the switchblade at her throat with a hand. He presses his thumb on her pulse, and she leans her head back, but there’s that shelf, and she has no place to move. “So, while we’re on the topic of welcome and whatnot, maybe this is the time to mention you blinded Michael.”

 

“I was defending myself,” she snaps, even if the guilt pulses.

 

“And maybe I could defend myself. Or maybe return the favor,” Dagda snaps out the switchblade again, pressing it against her bruise. She holds very still, even though it hurts. “Or maybe you can just recant.”

 

“ _Excuse_ me?”

 

“Does he have to say it again, bitch?” one of the hooligans snap. “Recant your testimony, say it wasn’t Dagda, that you made a _mistake_.”

 

“Wow, you’re holding a knife to my eye and demanding I recant,” MK rolls her eyes, clutching at the bookshelf and grabbing the nearest tome. “Do you know what happened to the last guy that threatened my life?”

 

Dagda’s eyes briefly unfocus, and she uses that moment to smash aside his hand from her throat with the book, nailing him in the groin with her heel. He falls to the floor, clutching himself, and MK whirls on the hooligans, tossing the book at one of them. He ducks, but it still hits him in the shoulder, and she reaches for another book. There are three hooligans beside Dagda, and one she hit is clutching his shoulder (damn right, asshole), but the other two are approaching. She ducks under the swing of one, turning straight into the punch of the second one. The punch lands on her injured cheek, which protests the treatment by blazing with pain. Physics reasserts itself by making her fall back, just in time to land on Dagda.

 

The hooligans grab her arms, pushing her up against the bookshelves. She can’t move, and Dagda stands up slow, snapping out the switchblade. “Let’s try this again,” he says softly, placing the switchblade back under her eye and pressing. Pain erupts as warm wetness runs down her cheek, “You’re going to go up to Chief Vigile, you’re going to recant, or I’m going to find you and do to you what you did to Michael. Only to both eyes.”

 

“Can’t identify him if you can’t see him,” one of the hooligans holding her arms drawls.

 

“What’s this?” a voice booms, and they all turn to see Finn standing there without crutches. “You know, I thought I’d pick up a book to read while I recover, and what do I find? Dagda Zerfall caught in the act of threatening the very person who lodged a complaint against him, and not only that, battery, assault—I can go on, but really, what’s the point?” Finn holds up a hand when one of the hooligans tenses. “Run. Go on. I dare you.”

 

“You’re off duty. You can’t arrest us.” Dagda says stubbornly.

 

Finn waves his cellphone at them. “Too bad I just called Chief Vigile and he’s on his way with his best officers. Caught in the act, do you know what that means?”

 

Dagda’s hand holding the switchblade flexes, digging deeper into the flesh under her eye. She whimpers unintentionally (it _hurts_ ), and Finn’s gaze zeroes in on her. “Means you can get arrested without a judge signing the warrant,” Finn says pleasantly. “Let go of her, Dagda. Now.”

 

Dagda’s jaw works before he snaps the switchblade shut, stepping away from her. The hooligans let go of her, and Finn gestures to her. She quickly heads over to him just as the cop cars come screaming, as well as an ambulance. “I wouldn’t move if I were you,” Finn warns Dagda and his goons as Ronin and some of his cops, Aisling included, get out of their cars and head towards the bookshop, guns out. “I’d hate for anybody to get shot because someone was overzealous.”

 

Ronin enters the bookshop, gun at the ready, and when Dagda and his hooligans lift up their hands, Aisling and some of the other detectives stow away their guns in favor of grabbing their handcuffs. “You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” Ronin’s frown is epic as he reads them their rights. “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. If you choose to answer questions without an attorney present, you have the right to stop answering until an attorney is present. Do you understand your rights as I have told you?”

 

Dagda grunts, “Yes.” The hooligans echo him, and Ronin looks at Aisling. “Take them out of here.”

 

Once they’re gone, Ronin turns to MK. “How are you doing?”

 

“Been better,” she admits, and it’s only now that she’s realizing she’s trembling slightly. Ronin’s frown deepens, and he calls for a paramedic, who comes over with a blanket and wraps MK in it like a burrito. She’s barely aware of it. “I—no. I’m not okay.”

 

She feels her knees start to wobble, and she sees the switchblade wavering in front of her. Her cheek is _aching_ , and she starts to fall, landing on something with a thump. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step back,” someone is saying in a steely tone of voice as she sits back, clutching the blanket. “You can ask your questions at the hospital.”

 

“Can’t go to the hospital,” MK mutters. “Mom’s not here.”

 

“One moment,” Ronin snarls at the paramedic. Carefully, he grasps her shoulders. “Look at me, MK—Mary Katherine. Look at me.” She follows his order, meeting his intent blue eyes. “The paramedic is taking you to the hospital to be treated for your cut and shock,” he tells her firmly. “I will be there shortly. Do you want me to call Nod?”

 

“Yes,” she blurts before she can think about it.

 

“I’ll take care of it.” Ronin cups her cheek. “I will join you shortly. You are safe.”

 

She starts to calm. “Ye—okay.”

 

Ronin steps back. “Now you may take her,” he tells the paramedic as MK leans back. At some point, she was put on a stretcher, and she leans back on it now as the paramedic wheels her into the ambulance. She spots Dagda being forced into a police car and she closes her eyes. This is not what she wants to think about right now, not when the combination of the ambulance plus the police cars are making her think of something else entirely.

 

\--

 

“Where is she? Mary Katherine Kennedy, what room is she in?” Ronin hears Nod’s voice from down the hall, and he looks to see Nod harassing one of the nurses, who’s visibly on edge. Before Nod does something stupid, he calls, “Nod? Over here.”

 

Nod looks up and sees him, and he strides down the hall. It’s not until Nod’s reached him that Ronin realizes Nod’s mother, Marina, is with him. “She’s in there,” Ronin indicates room 312, where MK is lying in bed, eye taped up and with an IV. “She’s being treated for shock, so don’t bother her too much.”

 

“Thank you,” Nod mutters, entering her room. MK blinks when she sees him, and Nod tells her something, because she relaxes as he pulls a chair up to her bedside, and he laces his fingers with hers.

 

“Ronin,” Marina says carefully.

 

“Marina,” Ronin returns, neutral to the last. “I’m sorry for interrupting your dinner.”

 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Marina gazes at her son through the door’s window. “Did you get him?”

 

“We did.”

 

“Is she safe?”

 

“I’m making sure she has a guard until the hospital releases her tomorrow morning.”

 

“Guards can be paid off.”

 

“Good thing it’s me, then.”

 

Marina looks at him for the first time. “You should be home with your wife.”

 

“My wife told me in no uncertain terms if I left MK now she would ensure we wouldn’t have any more children after this one,” Ronin says dryly. Tara’s reaction when he had called had been—interesting.

 

“Thank you for calling him,” Marina says grudgingly. “That means a lot to him.”

 

“She asked for him. I’m not about to deny her that.”

 

Marina nods carefully, before opening the door and letting herself in. Ronin catches, “MK, this is my mom, Marina--,” before the door closes.

 

A doctor approaches with a clipboard. “Chief Vigile?”

 

“Yes, Doctor?”

 

“Mary Katherine’s going to be fine. She’s up to date on her tetanus shots, and while she did go into shock, she’s out of it now. We’ll be sending food in soon to replenish her blood sugar. However, we do want to keep her here overnight for observation—I think we told you that—and we’d like to give her a psychiatric evaluation.”

 

Ronin raises a brow. “Excuse me?”

 

“Well,” the doctor fumbles, “when she came in, she was exhibiting PTSD and symptoms consistent with a panic disorder. One of the nurses tried to pick her up, and she nearly attacked him. We had to give her a shot of Ativan to calm her.”

 

“Is that why she’s so quiet?” Ronin asks, turning to look at her. She’d answered his questions, but her voice had been a little slurred. He’d written it off to her tiredness, but if she was drugged...he’ll have to get her to do the whole thing over again.

 

“Yes,” the doctor says. “We’d like to give her a psychiatric evaluation.”

 

“Out of curiosity, can you indicate which nurse she nearly attacked?”

 

“Henry,” the doctor calls, and a tall young nurse comes over. He’s over six feet, easily, with a broad muscular frame, dark hair, brown eyes, and pale skin. There’s a bandage wrapped around his left forearm. Ronin’s mind flashes to the mug shot of the Westchester Strangler. While Henry could not be the Strangler’s twin, he could be mistaken for him at a distance—or if you were already in a state of panic.

 

Ronin struggles with his temper, and loses. “Doctor,” he snaps out, “are you aware that Miss Kennedy has recently undergone a fairly traumatic experience, and showing signs of post-traumatic stress disorder and panic disorder symptoms are a part of that?”

 

“Well, I--.”

 

“No, you may not give her a psychiatric evaluation. I’m not even her legal guardian, though he’s informed me he’s on his way.”

 

“I just thought--.”

 

“And on top of that, you sedated her when I needed her to be fairly aware and definitively off the influence when I questioned her.” Ronin crosses his arms, staring down the doctor, who is starting to look hunted. Henry looks from him to the doctor, and decides to go.

 

“Ronin! Oh my god, Ronin, how is my daughter? Is she all right?” The doctor has likely never been happier to see Bomba Radcliffe.

 

“Sir, your daughter is going to be fine,” the doctor soothes. “She’s got a cut and we’re treating her for shock, but she’ll be able to go home tomorrow.”

 

The doctor doesn’t mention a word about psychiatric evaluations, and Bomba enters MK’s room. Ronin follows him in, and is unsurprised to find that Marina’s taken out her knitting and is chatting politely with Bomba.

 

MK’s asleep, holding onto Nod’s hand, but as Ronin looks more closely at her, he sees that her breathing is irregular, and she cracks open an eyelid, sees her father, and closes it again.

 

Nod meets Ronin’s eyes, pressing his lips together to hold back his laughter.

 

“She will be fine,” Marina tells Bomba, letting go of one of her knitting needles to squeeze Bomba’s wrist. “Tomorrow, she’ll go home. Do you want to stay here tonight?”

 

MK’s eyelids crack open again as she searches for Ronin’s gaze. When he meets her eyes, she shakes her head infinitesimally as Bomba wavers. “I should,” Bomba says, looking down at his apparently-asleep daughter.

 

Ronin steps forward. “I’ll be here all night, and I’ll make sure she gets home safe,” he offers.

 

Bomba relaxes. “Really? You would? I’d stay but I have this sensitive experiment going and I shouldn’t leave it for long...”

 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Ronin assures him. Nod jumps up.

 

“Hey, Professor Radcliffe, I’ll take you home.”

 

“That isn’t necessary,” Bomba says as Nod steers him out the door. Marina snorts as she wraps up her knitting.

 

“My son has a gift for persuasion,” she looks up at him, and for once, her gaze isn’t deepened by hate. “Have a good night, Chief.”

 

“You too, Marina.”

 

Once the room’s been cleared, Ronin sits in Nod’s empty chair as MK sits up. “How did Nod know to take your dad home?”

 

“I squeezed his hand,” MK explains. “My dad and hospitals—I just can’t.”

 

“I see.”

 

She peers at him with her non-taped eye. “Do you? I saw that the Doctor pulled you aside out there. What did he want?”

 

“He wanted to administer a psychiatric evaluation on the basis of that you nearly attacked the nurse.”

 

“I did attack the nurse,” MK protests. He almost thinks it’s from the slight to her pride. “I bit him.”

 

“I convinced him to let it go, on the basis that PTSD and panic disorders are not unusual reactions to stress and trauma.”

 

MK looks at him. “So you know—what happened, I mean.”

 

He sighs. “I did look it up, yes, and I apologize for breaking your privacy, but I had some questions I didn’t feel comfortable asking you. I would have preferred you telling me, but I can understand why you wouldn’t.”

 

“It’s my fault,” she says, looking down at her hands. “All of it—it’s my fault. I couldn’t see you look at me and know that. You’ve treated me better than anybody else, because you don’t see me as a victim.”

 

“You are not to blame for that man’s madness,” he tells her, leaning forward. “The actions he took were his own.”

 

“It was--,” her eye is welling up, and he grasps her hand gently.

 

“You are not to blame,” he tells her insistently, using the touch to ground her. “I’m assuming you’ve read the literature and know that you’re going through survivor’s guilt, yes?”

 

“They make it sound so clinical,” she hiccups, wiping at her eye.

 

“Tell me something, did the nurse cause you to have a flashback?”

 

“He approached me with a syringe and I lost it,” she admits. “The syringe was filled with something to calm shock symptoms—I’ve had it before, I just can’t think of the name—but he was there, in blue, and I lost touch with reality for a moment, and when I came back, I was biting his arm and trying to kick him. It took four nurses to get me off, apparently.”

 

“That was likely when they gave you a shot of Ativan,” Ronin tells her quietly, sitting back now that she seems a little bit more in control of herself. “We’ll have to redo the questions in the morning, after it’s passed out of your system. A credible lawyer would get that account thrown out of court on the basis of having a sedation medication in your bloodstream at the time.”

 

“Yeah, that’s fine,” MK says, leaning back. “I’m not about to forget what happened. So I’ll see you in the morning?”

 

Ronin grabs a book from out of his bag. “No, Tara informed me if I do not stay with you tonight to prevent further action taken against you by Mandrake, I am not welcome in her home.”

 

MK nods, her eye veiled. “Gotcha.”

 

“Go to sleep,” Ronin tells her kindly. “I’ll be here.”

 

She nods, yawning, and it doesn’t take long before her breathing evens out as she sleeps.

 

He drives her home fairly early in the morning, and she’s even planning on going back to work (even though he recommended she stay home for the day), and he gets to work, changing in the locker room after a quick shower (he gets so many flashbacks to high school he even briefly hates himself), steeling himself with a rather large mug of coffee and burying himself in work.

 

It’s a couple of hours later when he gets a knock on the door.

 

“Chief? Someone here to see you,” Annalise sounds unsteady, and when he looks at her, she’s pale.

 

“Send them in,” he says, putting aside his reports and folding his glasses. He’s not surprised when Mandrake sweeps into the room, angry yet contained in a black suit and tie. He gives clue to his anger by his white-knuckled grip on his cane, and Ronin knows exactly where his sidearm is, and how long it would take him to unholster it and shoot him should Mandrake swing at him with the cane.

 

“Chief Vigile,” Mandrake bites out, sitting down in one of the chairs. “Care to tell me why there’s no bail set for my son?”

 

“Well, both of Moonhaven’s judges are out on vacation. There needs to be an arraignment for bail to be set,” Ronin says caustically.

 

Mandrake’s grip shifts. “You could release him into my custody.”

 

“Oh yes, and wake up to find out Dagda’s been put on a plane to Brazil or Ecuador,” Ronin snorts. “Not bloody likely.”

 

“You could outfit him with an ankle bracelet,” Mandrake’s desperation is becoming clearer, and while Ronin doesn’t know _why_ Mandrake is so desperate, he finds himself enjoying it.

 

“We have protocol to follow,” Ronin says coolly. “Besides, it’s a fairly open-and-shut intimidation and assault.”

 

“Your victim was on Ativan at the time of her statement,” Mandrake snaps. Ronin files that away, along with a note to himself to send someone to arrest the doctor. That’s breaking doctor-patient confidentiality, at least. “It won’t be accepted in court.”

 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Ronin says breezily. “I got her statement this morning, after a blood test showed the Ativan was no longer in her system. And Detective Sudder also was an eyewitness. Your son’s no longer a minor, Mr. Zerfall. Assault, particularly armed assault, is a felony.”

 

“He had a switchblade.”

 

“It was assault and intent to commit aggravated assault,” Ronin snaps. “He was threatening to _blind_ her. Your son doesn’t have a legal leg to stand on here, and until Judges Dike and/or Mable come back, your son is staying in county lock-up until we get an arraignment date.”

 

“You will regret this,” Mandrake hisses.

 

“You’re threatening _me_ now?” Ronin stares him down.

 

Mandrake stiffens, and Ronin’s hand twitches toward his sidearm, before Mandrake stands up and sweeps out. Ronin tenses. This isn’t going to end well, but he doesn’t know where exactly it’s going to end.

 

\--

 

He’s distantly aware that he’s not in the best state to make any sort of decision.

 

But the one place he can’t reach is the county lock-up, where the warden is wise to the tactics he uses to control things to his liking. The warden and Vigile do swap tips, but Vigile has to appeal to a town population, where the warden, Marco Gutiérrez, does not.

 

He can’t bribe the guards. He can barely sneak in objects to his Boggans inside. He has no doubt that Dagda’s life is in danger, and he needs to get his son back home. Vigile would leap at the chance to charge _him_ with aiding a fugitive if he got Dagda out of the country. He meant it when he said he’d be happy to have Dagda back with an ankle bracelet. As long as his son is there, he can’t protect him.

 

The only recourse is to persuade Miss Kennedy to recant. Finn Sudder would still be a strong witness, but Miss Kennedy would be the final nail. If he can get her to recant, or at least refuse to testify, Vigile’s case would be much weaker, and his lawyers could easily get it dismissed.

 

His mind is made up, and he heads to the bookshop.

 

Miss Kennedy is at the register, absorbed in her latest novel. There’s a piece of white gauze taped to the skin under her left eye, and the entire left side of her face is a swollen mass of purple and green bruising. His son did that.

 

Once he gets Dagda home, he and Dagda will have quite the chat. But Dagda needs to come home first.

 

“Miss Kennedy,” he greets, and when she looks up, he notes the panic in her eyes. “I need to speak to you.”

 

“No, you really don’t,” she contradicts, standing up and putting her book aside.

 

“No, we do,” he tells her, allowing his physical presence to crowd her as he stands by the counter. He doesn’t believe she’s aware that she’s shrinking back. “Miss Kennedy, my son has done you a wrong. I know that, you know that. But my son needs to come home.”

 

“This conversation really does not need to happen,” she tells him, “because I already got the ‘please recant’ speech from him, and this is what I got for it,” she gestures to the bruise. “Why the hell does your son deserve to come home?”

 

“Because he will die,” he says quietly. There’s a glint to her eyes, something that turns her briefly into Anna.

 

“He should have left me alone,” she rasps. There’s a core of anger to her, something he hadn’t initially picked up, but it’s on display now.

 

“He should have,” he agrees. “But Mary Katherine, these are the actions of an impetuous youth. Don’t let that define him for the rest of his life, what remains of it.”

 

The use of her name is planned, and when she flinches—again an unconscious movement—he knows he’s chipping away at her resolve. He continues, “He is not violent enough to do this, to continue to harm others. He would not harm you again. He acts rashly and regrets it later. This should not have happened to you, and I apologize for that. He would not stalk you or attack you in the dead of night.” There’s more he can say, but that would be outright cruel.

 

Miss Kennedy’s face starts to crumple, so he presses the point. “My son is prone to acting on impulse, but _he is learning_. Sending him to prison will not help him in any respect. I swear to you, he will not harm you again. Please, recant your testimony or refuse to testify.”

 

“I--,” her chest is heaving with the force of her breathing, and all of the blood has drained from her face. He’s aware that he has triggered a panic attack, and even if she refuses to recant, his lawyers can use her panic disorder against her. He may not be able to get a hold of her medical files (though not through lack of trying), but her post-traumatic stress disorder and her panic attacks are practically public record, especially given her most recent attack where she bit Henry Echolls. “I--.”

 

“MK?” Nim enters the room from the office, taking in the scene immediately. “You weren’t trying to intimidate MK into not testifying, were you Mandrake?”

 

He eyes the bookshop owner with dislike. “I was not intimidating.”

 

“Yeah, that’s why she’s having a panic attack,” Nim snaps. “Get out, Mandrake. I don’t want your trash here.” Nim straightens, proving that he’s larger than him. “Don’t make me throw you out.”

 

He leaves, before Nim can prove it. When he glances over his shoulder on his way out, he sees Nim on the phone, holding onto MK’s shoulder with his free hand.

 

He did that, but he would do it again. His son needs to come home.

 

\--

 

Nod’s in the middle of writing up a report when Ronin taps on his desk. “Come with me.”

 

On their way out, Ronin tells him, “Mandrake went to the bookshop to try to convince MK to drop her testimony.”

 

Nod feels his stomach drop. “Is she okay?”

 

“Physically? She’s fine. Emotionally? She’s wrecked.”

 

“So why are you pulling me along?”

 

Ronin gives him a Look. “She wanted you to be there last night. I’m assuming it isn’t a huge stretch that she’d want you now.”

 

“Oh, is this you saying you approve?”

 

Ronin sighs. “No, this is me saying she’s having a hard time and she might want someone who makes her feel better about the general hard time. And I haven’t decided if I approve yet or not.”

 

“You like her,” Nod argues as he takes two steps to keep up with Ronin’s one. “Why wouldn’t you approve?”

 

“Because you don’t know everything that’s happened,” Ronin snaps, taking a moment to stop and glare. “And I know you don’t, because you are incapable of keeping something like this to yourself when it would disturb you that deeply.”

 

“Wait, you know--?”

 

Ronin talks over him. “She is deeply hurt, more than you can imagine, and I believe that the last thing she needs is a romantic entanglement. But what I believe doesn’t matter. The point is that you make her feel safe. _That_ is why I’m bringing you along, and that reason alone.”

 

“You really know how to affirm people,” Nod says venomously.

 

“You do good work, when you’re not being an idiot. Trust me, once she tells you, you’ll understand my hesitation,” Ronin’s trying to be helpful. It’s not exactly working.

 

They enter the bookshop, and Nod can see immediately why Ronin wanted him along. Nim’s talking to MK quietly, and she’s clutching the counter. Her face is bone pale, making the bruise stand out even more on her face.

 

Everything leaves his mind, and he only thinks he needs to get to her, right now. He ignores Ronin’s order, moving around the latest July display to put a hand to MK’s shoulder. “MK? Hey, what’s wrong?”

 

She looks up at him, and she lets go of the counter to hold onto him. He can’t tell if she’s crying, but she’s shaking enough to suggest it. “What happened?” he demands, looking at Nim.

 

“Mandrake came here to tell me what a bad idea it is to send his son to prison,” MK says, her voice muffled through his uniform. He has a passing thought that he wishes he wasn’t in uniform—the material can’t be comfortable on her face. “Trying to tell me that Dagda is a nice guy who just made a mistake.” She snorts, which feels very odd through his shirt. “Yeah, heard that song before. Guess what, it’s always about the _white_ guys.”

 

Nod and Ronin exchange looks. “Did he trigger you?” Ronin asks carefully. “Was there intimidation?”

 

“No, he was trying to appeal to my h-humanity,” she sniffs, leaning back. Her face is dry, but she’s still clutching onto his arms. “Kept to the letter of the law, but his meaning was clear.”

 

Ronin’s face is pinched. If Mandrake had out-and-out threatened MK, there were a couple of things they could have charged him with—intimidation, intimidation of a state witness, threat of battery, etc. But keeping with the letter of the law means they can’t nail him on this. He clearly triggered her, and he gets to walk away.

 

Nod really hates him.

 

“Look, go home,” Nim says kindly. “History museum’s closed today anyway, ongoing plumbing issues. You’re too rattled. It’s okay.”

 

“Don’t want to be with my dad,” she mumbles.

 

Well, there is _a_ solution, but he doesn’t want to bring it up right now. “Let’s get you to the station, where we can get you some tea and something to eat, at least. We can talk about home after, all right?”

 

MK winces, but she goes along, clutching onto him with all of her strength. There will be bruises, but he can’t say he’ll regret them. She ends up with Annalise, who is all sympathy, and Nod follows Ronin into his office. Ronin closes his door, leaning against his desk and blowing out a harsh breath. Nod realizes how tired his chief looks, and remembers Ronin stayed up all night, guarding MK.

 

“Hey, is it cool if I take the afternoon off? I’m up to date on my work, and since it doesn’t look like I’m going back to the field before the autumn equinox, can I take off?”

 

Ronin scrubs at his face with the heel of his palms. “Are you taking her somewhere?”

 

“I figured we’d go hiking, change of scenery,” Nod admits. It’s not worth lying to Ronin. When he figures it out, it creates a bigger deal than if you were just honest. He knows from personal experience. “And do you really want MK in locations where Mandrake could find her?”

 

Ronin shakes his head. Whatever he’s thinking, he’s not about to tell Nod. “Fine, but take your sidearm.”

 

“ _Thank_ you,” Nod says fervently. He’d been hoping to take MK hiking anyway, and Mandrake’s interference just moved along the timetable. As he turns on his heel to exit, Ronin stops him.

 

“Also, you can go back in the field tomorrow. You’re officially off desk duty once you’re back in tomorrow.”

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“Yes,” Ronin sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I am. See you tomorrow, Nod.”

 

MK looks much better when he passes by her, and he puts that down to Annalise’s involvement. “Hey, I’m just going to change and then we can go, okay?”

 

MK peers at him. “Where are we going?”

 

“It’s a surprise, but a good one, I promise.”

 

Annalise doesn’t say anything, but he can feel the Judgment pouring off of her. He winks at her, looking MK up and down quickly. She’s in boots, probably due to the dampness (which is actually not seasonal, but whatever), jeans, and her favorite pink hoodie. It works for hiking. He’ll just need to get a couple of water bottles, and they should stick to the trails, anyway.

 

“I would like you to know that I’m trusting you,” MK says, and it even sounds like her. The change of scenery is already helping.

 

“I’m glad. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

He changes quickly into a hoodie of his own, jeans, and boots. They would match, if his hoodie were pink instead of hunter green. He tucks his gun holster onto the side of his belt, letting the hoodie hem cover it. It might freak out MK, and that’s the last thing he wants right now. The vending machine outside of the locker rooms has the large water bottles, and he feeds money into it until he gets four, two to take with them on the trails, and two to leave in the car for when they come back.

 

“Are you ready?” he beams at her, and she stands up, a little bit more color to her skin.

 

“Thanks Annalise.”

 

“Anytime, sweetheart,” she says kindly, glaring at Nod.

 

“So where are we going?” MK asks as they leave the station, nodding at Finn, Aisling, and Arya, who is sitting on Aisling’s desk and bothering her. “I’m not actually a huge fan of surprises.”

 

“I thought I’d take you on the trails,” he tells her, unlocking his small black sedan. He doesn’t open the door for her—she wouldn’t appreciate it, not now. “I have this favorite place, and it’s not that deep into the woods.”

 

“Ooh, I get to know more of your past,” she’s trying to sarcastically seductive, and it almost works. “Have you taken past conquests there too?”

 

“Actually, no. Don’t usually know them long enough to make it worth my while.” Annalise said something. It’s going to bother him that he doesn’t know what exactly it was.

 

“Oh, so I’m special.”

 

“Well, I like you more,” he offers to push away the slight bitterness in her tone. She doesn’t want to be ‘special,’ and that might have something to do with what Ronin was talking about earlier. “Buckle up, okay?”

 

“Wow, you really are fulfilling all of the policeman stereotypes. Will you drive five miles below the speed limit too?”

 

“Only if I’m going the back roads,” he assures her, “which I’m not, so you can expect five miles above the speed limit from me.”

 

She giggles, and it feels like a victory.

 

He sneaks glances at her as they drive out of town (not that it takes much), heading towards their local state park. It’s five minutes past the town line, and it’s ten to get from the police station to the town line. The access was why he and his dad went all the time when he was younger—he doesn’t remember why his mom didn’t come, but it probably has something to do with taking a break from her hyperactive child.

 

He pulls into a parking space. It’s a damp Thursday afternoon—no one’s here. He gets out and so does she, tucking her hands into her hoodie pocket as she looks around. “It’s quiet,” she comments, grabbing one of the bottles he’s tossed to her and closing her door with a snap.

 

“You won’t think it’s so quiet once we get on the trail,” he promises, locking up his car and tucking the keys in his pocket. “We’re not going too far, though.”

 

“Cicadas?” she says, deeply unimpressed as he leads her into the woods.

 

“Cicadas,” he confirms, grinning at her.

 

“Hate them,” she mutters, stumbling a little as she tries to keep up with him, and he slows down. He knows the area, and she doesn’t. He shouldn’t go as fast as he normally does. “They look gross. Yes, I _know_ they’re harmless, but that doesn’t help the ick factor. And now you’re laughing at me.”

 

“Yes,” he tells her, jumping over a log. She follows. “You’re funny.”

 

“Oh _goody_.” MK ducks under a branch. “So how far is it until we reach this place, anyway?”

 

“Not far,” he assures her, stopping at a natural crossroad, orienting himself. He draws out a package of crackers from his pocket as he remembers where he is, ripping open the package and leaving the crackers piled high on one of the corners. His dad always did that, “Never know what’s out there, and it can’t hurt,” he’d say, ruffling Nod’s hair. “We need to go right,” he says to MK, who’s watched this with narrowed eyes.

 

“What’s up with the crackers?” she asks as she follows him.

 

“You’ve never left an offering at a crossroads?”

 

“No,” and his back is to her as he pushes aside some foliage, but he knows that her face is set with her hands on her hips. Since he’s not looking at her, he can smile.

 

“My dad taught me to do it,” he explains. The trails are usually well traveled during the summer; so he doesn’t understand why this trail is so, well, not broken. He knows he traveled it with his dad when he was younger. It starts to occur to him that maybe his dad found their favorite place on his own, and broke his own trail. “Said it couldn’t hurt to make an offering to something we can’t see. My dad and I never got lost, for the record.”

 

He’s told only three people this—Ronin, Tara (who had nodded like she was in on the secret), and his second grade teacher, Mrs. Ellis. Mrs. Ellis had immediately spouted off that that was a pagan teaching, and that god was enough.

 

Mrs. Ellis was the sister of Pastor Newlin. She had retired the following year.

 

He waits to see what MK says. Ronin hadn’t said anything, Tara had given her silent approval, and Mrs. Ellis had been a judgmental harpy. “Huh,” MK says at last, and it’s her tone that means she’s thinking through things. He’s dying to know what she thinks, but if it’s tied up to her personal issues—which it probably is—she won’t say anything, at least not to him.

 

“C’mon, we’re almost there,” he promises her, grabbing her hand and leading her past a ring of willows. She stumbles, catching herself on his arm with her free hand.

 

“Nod, slow down--.” When he moves aside the curtain of willow branches, her breath catches in her throat.

 

He and his dad found this place on Nod’s fifth birthday. Spring had just started to come to the forest, and Nod had been anxious to go hiking, since his mom had decreed there would only be hiking after it stopped snowing for at least three days. His fifth birthday came on the fifth day of no snow.

 

He’d run on ahead, avoiding every icy patch except one, and when his dad had barreled through the willow curtain, he’d stopped to stare, just like Nod had.

 

The ground’s elevated in a gentle hill, and at the top there’s a spring, creating a waterfall down into a pond. The water’s amazingly clear with a blue tint, and around it are rocks, with flowers in between. The pond, Nod knows from experience, is between ten to fifteen feet deep, but the water’s so clear you’d think it was three. It’s always cold, and since the spring never freezes over, the waterfall doesn’t let the water settle enough to freeze in the pond. Fish swim in silver darts, and it’s one of the few open spaces for sunlight to come in.

 

Nod wraps an arm around MK’s shoulders, and she lets her head rest on his sternum. “This is amazing.”

 

“Worth the hike?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

He’s thinking about offering to sit, with one of his usual comments (“My lap is always open,”), when they hear the plinking of raindrops on leaves. MK takes a step back, just in time for the skies to open up.

 

It’s not so much a sashay back to the car as it is a flat-out run.

 

By the time that they’re inside his faithful little sedan, they’re soaked to the bone. He turns the heat on full blast, but he can still hear MK’s teeth chattering. “Do you want me to take you home?”

 

“No,” she says, holding her hands over the heater. “My dad’s in the middle of an experiment. He barely stops to eat.”

 

“Tell you what, we can go to my place. I can toss your things in my dryer,” he offers. It really is spur-of-the-moment. He’s been hoping to get MK to his apartment, but adding MK to his apartment was always a nebulous thought, at best. “I’ll make dinner.”

 

“Sounds like a plan,” she says, shrinking into her seat as the heat roars. He doesn’t usually set it this high, and it complains.

 

“That was really beautiful,” MK says a little bit later. It looks like her hems are starting to dry, even if her hoodie stays soaked. “I can see why you love it.”

 

“Did you and your mom have something like that?” It’s risky, bringing up her mom, but he knows from experience that it helps to talk about the good memories. That way, you never live with the impression that your dead parent was always, well, dead.

 

“We didn’t really have a place,” MK says, her voice slow. “We had more of a—hobby. She put me in dance, I think you knew that. Dance was our thing.”

 

He hasn’t risked saying anything before this, but he can maybe say it now. “It does get better.”

 

“Hm?” MK slides her back up her seat to meet his eyes. He takes his gaze from the road to meet her clear green eyes.

 

“It gets easier, even though when you lose a parent, it feels like the world is ending. It takes a while, but you do start to heal.”

 

She’s quiet after that, and he wonders if he’s reached her. He pulls into his apartment complex (‘The Village,’ which doesn’t sound creepy at _all_ ), parking into his assigned space. MK moves as soon as he removes the key from the ignition, and given that her boots are sloshing, she’s probably anxious to get dry.

 

His apartment’s on the second floor, and he leads her up the stairs. The door has a tendency to stick, so he has to lean on it to get it to unlock, but he’s not complaining, and once they get inside after he closes and locks the door, he leads her to the bathroom. “Help yourself one of my shirts and a pair of shorts, okay? Just leave your clothes here, and I’ll put them into the dryer.”

 

“Okay,” MK says through the closed door.

 

“Feel free to use the shower,” he calls to her as he walks into the kitchen and plugs in his kettle. He doesn’t keep a lot of tea, mostly the tea that keeps you awake when your taste buds object to coffee, but he does keep some Lady Grey for his mom when she stops by, and he gets that out plus two of the huge mugs from Ikea. The water’s steadily heating, so he heads back to his bathroom.

 

MK’s not in there, but her clothes are in a soggy pile. He picks them up and walks back to his kitchen. In the room adjoining it, he keeps his washing machine and dryer, and he tosses them into the dryer, set on maximum heat for over an hour.

 

“MK?” he calls, checking back on his kettle. It’ll be a bit longer. “Want some tea?”

 

When there’s no answer, he figures she’s exploring and he goes to find her.

 

His apartment isn’t that big—he’s got a kitchen, bedroom + bath, and a second ‘major’ room that doubles as study and living room. The kitchen feeds directly into his living study (he appreciates his cleverness), and since she’s not there, he assumes she’s in his bedroom.

 

He’s surprised to find that she’s actually in his bed, curled under his blankets. She looks like she’s asleep, but when he leans on his doorframe, she mumbles, “Stop staring.”

 

“You’re not where I expected you to be,” he says.

 

“Please,” she should not sound so sarcastic while half-asleep. “Where were you expecting me?”

 

“Investigating my underwear drawer?” he offers.

 

She rolls over, and he shouldn’t be so—but she’s in his _bed_ , red hair sprawled messily over the white of his sheets, wearing his clothes, and there’s definitely something stirring there. “Are you just going to stare?” she says sleepily.

 

“Is that an invitation? While you’re in my bed, I might add,” he squelches the giddy tone, but his inner self is jumping up and down.

 

“Whatever,” she grumbles, rolling back over. “M’tired. Either join me or go away.”

 

“I need to turn off the kettle, and I’m going to take a shower, but I’ll be here.”

 

“Okay,” she sighs, apparently falling back asleep. He pads down the hall to unplug the kettle and he empties it, before heading back to his room. He closes the door to the bathroom, stripping off his clothes. His skin has that cold, clammy feel to it that he hates, and the only way to get rid of it is to take a hot shower.

 

His shower lasts maybe seven minutes, and he towels his hair dry before he pulls on a pair of sweats. Once his hair isn’t slimy, he gets out of the bathroom. MK’s definitely asleep now, and it looks like she’s a blanket hog. He laughs a little, lying down outside the blankets, away from her.

 

Well, that was the plan, until she rolled over and threw an arm over his chest.

 

He closes his eyes, and though he didn’t initially plan it, he falls asleep.

 

Since he’s not exactly a nap person, he wakes up in about forty-five minutes. Somehow, in that time, he’s turned so that he’s cradling her, and her body is facing his.

 

While he’s not complaining, he needs to go to the bathroom.

 

Letting go of MK is the easy part. Loosening her hands from his chest isn’t. Her face contorts slightly as he covers his hands with hers, relaxing her grip. Her frown deepens when he moves away, and she blinks semi-awake. “...Nod?”

 

“Go back to sleep,” he tells her.

 

“Okay,” she yawns, burying into the warm spot he’s left.

 

She’s asleep in his _bed_ , and his sheets are going to smell like her—no, calm down. This doesn’t mean anything, other than that she trusts you enough not to mess with her while she’s vulnerable, or that you make her feel safe or—

 

No. His moral voice has always sounded like Ronin. You’re letting her dictate this for a reason, and while your primal side is satisfied, she needs to make the next step, not you, even though you want to.

 

It’s the right thing, even if he wishes they were progressing just a little faster.

 

He finishes up in the bathroom, and heads into the kitchen. He’s got to figure out what they’re having for dinner.

 

\--

 

MK wakes up when she smells frying onions, and for a sweet, blessed moment she thinks she’s back in her small house in Westchester, it’s a Sunday evening and her mom is making stir fry because they’re both tired and stir fry is easy to make and easy to chew. Then she breathes in and catches the scent from the pillows she’s drooling on and the illusion vanishes.

 

She wipes her chin, and tries to daub at the wet spot without spreading it. The scent from the pillows rises up as she rubs at it, the scent of cotton, something a little sweet, like fresh-baked pastry dough, and underneath it, boy sweat. She’s always liked the smell of boy sweat, and her toes curl a little before she sits up.

 

Her chest aches, a little, with grief. Mandrake definitely knows what he’s doing, playing her like that. He knows what happened—has to. His comments are too specific for him not to, but they’re also vague enough that she can’t pin down who might have given him the information.

 

If he knows everything, it’s only a matter of time before he brings up the worst of it, and she realizes she’s trembling at the thought. When Nod curses quietly in the kitchen, it snaps her out of it, and she gets out of his bed to walk into the kitchen.

 

He’s doing stir-fry with tofu, it looks like, and he’s laying kitchen towels over his rice cooker’s lid. “Sleep good?” he asks, laying down a third before turning back to stir the vegetables.

 

“I slept well,” she confirms, sliding into one of his two chairs. It’s a fairly comfortable wooden chair, and she leans back, appreciating the fact Nod cooks shirtless. “Do you always not wear a shirt when cooking?”

 

“Only when I’m cooking for you,” but since he’s not facing her, she can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic.

 

“Well, I’m not complaining,” she teases. “Can I help?”

 

“I’ve got something you can--.”

 

“With setting the table, perv.”

 

“Oh. Plates are in the rightmost cabinet, and silverware in the drawer under it,” he gestures toward the counter with the spatula. “But you could still...”

 

“I don’t have a kitchen kink,” she says dryly, getting out plates and silverware. “Sorry.”

 

“So what kinks _do_ you have?” he waggles his eyebrows at her, and she laughs a little, kissing his cheek before turning to the table.

 

“Nice try.”

 

He hooks an arm around her waist, tugging her to him so he can kiss the sensitive area behind her ear. Her knees abruptly give out, and she feels him laugh against the rim of her ear. “Please?”

 

“You’ll just have to figure it out,” but it would sound a lot better if she wasn’t breathless.

 

“Is that an invitation?”

 

Her breath hitches as he noses her ear before biting her earlobe gently. “The—stir-fry’s burning.”

 

He lets go of her. “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too,” he tells her, half-laughing.

 

She sets the table, face hot. “Glasses?”

 

He gestures with his spatula on the other side of the stove, and she takes down two glasses. “What do you have to drink?”

 

He squints at her. “I think I’ve got iced tea in the fridge.”

 

That works, so she opens the fridge door and pulls out the pitcher of iced tea. She fills the glasses and puts the pitcher back, carrying the glasses to the table.

 

“Perfect timing,” Nod says, turning off the flame and grabbing a hot pad out of a drawer. He sets it on the table, picking up the pan and laying it on the hot pad. The rice cooker dings, and he grabs their plates and a rice-serving spoon, ladling out the rice evenly between their two plates. “I like rice. It’s easy and quick.”

 

“My mom made this rice oatmeal,” she offers as she sits down. “She added nutmeg, cinnamons, and almonds. It was really good on winter mornings, and she made it the morning of every recital I had.”

 

“Sounds good,” he says, offering her the spatula to serve herself. She takes it, and the scent of ginger and sesame rises as she liberally spreads the stir-fry on her rice, before passing Nod the utensil. “My mom made regular oatmeal on school days, but the only way I’d eat it is if it was sweet, so in the fall and winter, it had apples, cinnamon, and nutmeg, and in the spring, it would have honey and cream.” He smiles fondly, digging into his stir-fry. “It wasn’t until years later that I learned most people ate it not sweet.”

 

She nods, taking the first bite, and when she tastes it, she almost moans. The tofu’s soaked up the flavors of the veggies and the sauce that Nod used, and it’s complex and explodes on her tongue. Nod misses her food orgasm (thank _god_ ), because he’s too busy shoveling his own food, and after she’s swallowed, she says, “This is really good, Nod.”

 

He grins at her. “We finally get to have dinner.”

 

“It’s like someone was conspiring against us or something,” she laughs, taking another bite. It’s just as good as the first time, and after that, they don’t talk, too busy on eating. By the time she’s slowing down, Nod’s plate is clean, and he sips his tea, watching her eat. It would be creepy if his gaze wasn’t so appreciative.

 

“So, are we ever going to talk about your mom?” he says when she puts aside her silverware after cleaning her plate, “And I mean more than in the vague sense.”

 

“What do you want to know?”

 

“I think you know what I mean,” Nod’s gaze sharpens, and for the first time, she realizes that he’ll make a great detective. He certainly seems like he’s interrogating her.

 

But the idea of telling Nod everything—she fights off the shudder. Ronin had taken it well, but he’s been a policeman for forever. Nod lost his dad in the line of fire, but it probably wasn’t his fault. It’s her fault that her mom’s dead. “I—can’t. The words...won’t come.”

 

“Okay,” Nod dips his head. “Are you talking to anybody about this? Maybe your dad?”

 

“Yeah, my dad,” she says nastily. “My dad, who couldn’t be bothered about me or my life until the FBI called him and told him he was now in charge of my life. Yeah, I’m about to tell him what a broken little bird I am.”

 

“Maybe you haven’t given him the chance to care,” Nod says quietly. “You barely spend any time with him outside of what you have to. You’re right, he should’ve been a bigger part of your life before your mother’s death, but he’s trying now, and he’s probably the person who knows the most and could help you.”

 

“ _Help_ me? My dad can barely keep pesticides and cooking sauces separate,” she retorts, sitting upright. “He doesn’t exactly have the tact to manage something more complex than that.”

 

“MK,” Nod snaps, his eyes serious. “ _Listen_ to me for a moment.” When she doesn’t say anything, he continues more gently, “You’ve been punishing your dad, and repressing everything. You don’t have to talk to me, but you should talk to him. He lost her too.”

 

It’s a tense moment, broken by the tinny ringtone of _not_ her phone. He reaches around himself for his phone on the counter, still holding her gaze as he answers, “Nod.” He listens, his gaze becoming less sharp and more horrified. “What? Yeah, I’ll be in in half an hour. My phone’s on. See you soon.” When he hits ‘end,’ she reaches for his hand.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Dagda pissed off the wrong person in county lock-up.” Nod takes a deep breath. “He’s dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the drama kicks up a notch!
> 
> Sound off below, I love to hear comments.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General trigger warning for panic attacks/PTSD symptoms.
> 
> We're winding down to the end, ladies and gentleman.

**CHAPTER FIVE**

 

MK doesn’t have a clear memory for how she ended up at Ronin and Tara’s on Saturday night. She’s dimly aware that Nod is involved, and even more dimly aware that she _may_ have been frog-marched there, but either way, she’s sitting on Tara’s couch, latest embroidery project in hand as she stitches the outline of a crescent moon. When it’s done, it will form a trinity with the sun and stars, but she’s doing the moon first in indigo thread.

 

Tara is sitting across from her on the couch, talking on the phone quietly. Ronin is in full body armor, just as Nod is, and she realizes she doesn’t fully get it. Yesterday was okay, but then she stayed in the main part of town, and she’s stayed inside at home today until Nod showed up at her door and said, “Mayor wants to talk to you.”

 

The moon is quickly forming its shape, and she adds some greater definition to the curve of the crescent while Tara mutters into the receiver. MK snaps out of it when Tara hangs up, looking at the mayor when she says, “Mary Katherine, how are you holding up?”

 

“What do you mean by that?” MK says, tilting her head slightly. “Like, how am I dealing with what’s currently going on, or in general?”

 

Tara laughs slightly, and it sounds like water burbling. MK looks down, feeling a little flushed. “It was a silly question. I understand that both Dagda and Mandrake have confronted you,” she gestures to MK’s bruise, “and that you needed a break on Thursday afternoon.”

 

“Yeah, I needed that,” MK says softly, looking back at Tara. “Did you know last Friday was the one month mark since my mom di—was murdered?”

 

“Yes, I did know.”

 

“And in a little less than a month, the trial for my mother’s killer begins,” MK sighs, leaning back and tucking her feet underneath her in her chair. “So please believe me when I say that I’m not exaggerating when I say this is the _last_ thing I need.”

 

“I agree,” Tara says, looking to Ronin and Nod as they enter. “Well?”

 

“It’s calmed down some,” Ronin says, “but there’s still a risk. MK, I think you should go into protective custody, maybe even leave town for the next couple of days.”

 

“I will not,” MK says coolly, tying a knot in her outline and grabbing the next thread to start on the sun. “I refuse to be thrown out of town by Mandrake.”

 

“She can come stay with me for a couple of days?” Nod offers. Ronin gives him a Look.

 

“Look, my dad’s house is fairly safe,” MK contends, licking the thread and moving it through the eye of her needle.

 

“He doesn’t _lock his doors_.”

 

“...true,” MK admits, pulling down the thread just so and making the first stitch.

 

“Like I said, you can come stay with me,” Nod offers, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Mandrake’s not likely to go after your dad.”

 

The idea is at least a little tempting, because she did feel more well rested after sleeping in his bed, but Nod’s never seen her nightmares, and she doesn’t think she’s ready for that yet.

 

Tara snaps her fingers. “Stay with me,” she offers, carefully leaning across to lay a hand on MK’s arm. “I could use the company, and Ronin’s been after me to have more than Mub and Grub, since they’re only here during working hours, anyway.”

 

MK looks at Ronin. “Would that be okay?”

 

“You’d be safer than with your dad,” Ronin shrugs, “and I have been wanting Tara to have someone around on a more full-time basis. She’s getting close enough to her due date that I am...concerned.”

 

“All lies,” Tara teases. “He’s terrified. Isn’t that right, dear?”

 

“Whatever you say,” Ronin says, straight-faced.

 

“If it helps, we’ll pay you,” Tara offers, “just to come on as companion.”

 

“You don’t need to pay me,” MK says awkwardly, “I’m making enough at Nim’s, and you’ll have a baby to pay for. I’m happy to do it.”

 

Nod looks a little disappointed, but when he smiles at her, she knows he’s not mad at her or anything, he just wanted to sleep with her, probably in all the senses of the word.

 

She’s not necessarily objecting to the metaphorical sleeping, but she’s not ready for committed not metaphorical sleeping.

 

“I’ll just need to clear it with my dad,” she adds on, remembering her dad. “He should be warned.”

 

“That’s fair,” Tara sighs, leaning back and rubbing her stomach. “But let’s get you in place as soon as possible, okay? Your house _is_ isolated and easy to get at.”

 

“We’ll go right now,” Ronin says authoritatively, double-checking the straps on his body armor. He points at Nod. “ _You_ stay here. Finn and Aisling are currently running the command center, and the number of calls we’ve gotten has been the highest since I became chief.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“The Boggans, grieving in the only way they know how,” Ronin tells her bitterly. “With petty vandalism, violence, and theft.”

 

“How badly hit is the hospital?” Tara asks.

 

Ronin scrubs a hand over his face. “It sounds like most of it is a wrap here or a piece of gauze there, but there are about five people with more serious injuries. Nothing fatal—yet, but let’s keep you out of the way.”

 

MK doesn’t know if he’s talking to her or Tara, but given what Nod had said about Mandrake going after Tara, she settles on that he’s addressing both. She gets up, putting her embroidery in its plastic bag and tucking that into her shoulder bag. “Let’s go,” she says with a sigh. “Dad may take some convincing.”

 

Dad actually takes no convincing, because he’s leaving for about a week and a half in the woods, to track his bat flock or something. He’s actually in the process of packing up his hiking frame pack, and when MK shows up with Ronin following, he says, “MK! I’m leaving early tomorrow morning for a camping trip. I’d hate to leave you alone, do you want to go stay with Nod?”

 

“Actually,” she starts, but Ronin cuts her off.

 

“Due to the fact that Mandrake will blame MK for his son’s death, the Mayor and I have come to the conclusion that she will be better off in protective custody, and we’ve extended an invitation for her to stay with us until this either blows over or we finally nail Mandrake on something.”

 

“How long do you think that could be?”

 

“I honestly don’t know,” Ronin admits, “but the other thing is that I would really like someone to be with Tara until she gives birth and maybe the couple of weeks after, because I don’t want my life to be alone.”

 

“Oh, that’s fine!” Dad chirps. He nods at her. “Feel free! I’m just going to be incommunicado for the next week and a half, maybe longer if I get caught up, because I don’t get service in the woods.”

 

“Okay dad,” she sighs. “I’m just going to—grab a few things.”

 

Dad grins and goes back to packing up his bag.

 

She turns to Ronin. “I’ll be back soon.”

 

She hears Dad start to tell Ronin about what his research is as she climbs up the stairs. She doesn’t need a lot, just a couple of sets of clothes, her laptop, her embroidery, and her knitting. She hasn’t knitted since she was anxiously preparing for her AP exams, but she knits when she’s anxious, and something tells her anxiety will be coming back.  Oh, and her bath soaps. A girl needs to be able to unwind with vanilla sugar body wash.

 

Throwing it all together in her bag takes maybe ten minutes, and she can always come back to get more stuff. She double-checks her room, and grabs her hoodie before rushing to rescue Ronin from her dad’s enthusiasm.

 

Ronin’s eye is starting to twitch, and she says quickly, “Okay, Dad, have fun camping!”

 

“I will—and stay safe,” her dad says earnestly. She pauses.

 

“Thanks, dad,” she says sincerely, “you too.”

 

With that, they’re out the door. Ronin takes her bag without asking, putting it in the trunk of his sedan while she gets in, fastening her seatbelt. “Did Dad tell you everything you never wanted to know about bats?” she asks, covering her mouth to hide her smile.

 

“I was unaware of how bats measured their colonies,” Ronin deadpans, backing his car out of the driveway and heading back to the Mayor’s mansion. “I find that I am grateful for the knowledge.”

 

She peers at him. His tone is completely dry, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes, and she finds that she’s laughing. When his lips twitch in a small smile, her laugh deepens until it’s a genuine belly laugh.

 

She hasn’t laughed like this since before Mom died. It feels good.

 

She daubs at the corners of her eyes. “Sorry,” she says, sitting up.

 

“Don’t apologize. Laughter is always good.”

 

“Thank you, for that,” she says, looking out the window.

 

“I’m guessing you haven’t had much cause to laugh lately. Don’t thank me—you needed that.”

 

How is it that this man who’s barely known her for maybe three weeks gets her better than her own dad? The thought is sad, but she pushes it away. “Yeah, I did.”

 

Ronin parks in the garage. “I hate to beat the dead horse, but you can talk to me, you know.”

 

MK manages a smile for him. It comes easier than she expected. “I may just take you up on that.”

 

\--

 

She settles in well, for someone who is uncertain of her footing, Ronin admits to himself later. She and Tara stayed up talking while he worked, and when Tara wished to go to bed, she came to get him.

 

After he’s tucked his wife into bed, he goes back downstairs to find that she’s curled under a light, stitching something in an embroidery hoop. “What are you making?”

 

“It will—eventually—be a quilting square,” she says without looking up. “My Grandma Lyse taught me everything I should ever need to know with a needle. I can even tat lace, even if it requires gloves. Though I can only do two or three patterns.”

 

“How did she teach you this?”

 

“My mom shipped me off to her for a month out of every summer up until she died when I was 14. She lived in Vermont, and my mom wanted me out of Westchester during July. We did a lot of things, but she mostly worked on my hope chest. I have all of the linens I could ever hope to want, but I embroider and knit to keep my fingers limber.”

 

“It keeps her close?”

 

Now she looks up at him. “Yeah, and Mom too. My craftiness was the reason I never had to buy her a present for years.”

 

“You’re planning on turning that into a quilt?”

 

“Well, quilts are the one thing I don’t have,” she quips, tying off a knot. “And the city can get cold.”

 

“Fair enough,” he says, straightening. “Good night.”

 

“Good night,” she calls after him as he ambles into his study. By the time he closes up and goes to bed, she’s gone.

 

He’s always been an early riser, and so was Tara until the last trimester of her pregnancy. He leaves his wife in bed and goes to fix breakfast. He finds these quiet mornings to be restful, a moment to be quiet without needing to be anyone in particular. Once the baby is born, he won’t have mornings like this, so he cherishes them while he can.

 

After eating his yogurt and granola, he retreats to his study to get the latest reports, emailed to him from Finn late last night. The Boggans burned down the rebuilding of the truck stop, and all guilty parties were arrested. The art district was left alone, but plenty of Boggans are skulking around it, but since they’re not doing anything, Finn doesn’t want to arrest them and ramp up the tension even higher.

 

Bufo’s racing has been suspended until further notice, apparently his own decision. For now, things have quieted after burning the truck stop, but it could easily be thrown into violence again.

 

He takes a break for get lunch together and is surprised to find MK in the kitchen, chopping up peppers for a salad. There are mushrooms sautéing in olive oil on the gas stove, and the chilled chicken left over from Friday’s dinner has been sliced. “Oh my god, I hope you don’t mind,” MK says anxiously, putting aside the santoku knife. “I just thought you’d still be busy, and Tara’s waking up—slowly—and salads are easy.”

 

“It’s fine,” Ronin says, leaning on the counter. “I was about to make lunch myself. Salads are fine—Tara can’t eat heavy food anyway, it makes her nauseous.”

 

“I will—keep that in mind.” She stirs the mushrooms.

 

“Out of curiosity, why cook the mushrooms?”

 

She blushes. “I don’t like raw mushrooms.”

 

“Fair enough. Tara’s in the process of getting up?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

He pushes off from the counter and goes upstairs, and sure enough Tara is awake, trying to pull herself up. Her pajama top is taut over her belly, and Ronin squashes the urge to run his hands over the curve of her stomach, not without her permission. “Don’t just stand there, help me,” Tara orders, grabbing at him.

 

He takes her hands and braces his feet, pulling her upright. “Baby’s been active,” she tells him, smoothing a hand over her stomach. “Been avoiding the bladder, thank the Goddess, but has been kicking my poor innards black and blue.” She grabs his hand and presses it to her stomach. “See?”

 

The baby kicks at the pressure, and Ronin smiles. “I thought that was the game you played,” he says, “pressing your hand one place, and when the baby kicks it, you move it elsewhere.”

 

“Well, that’s fun unless you’re trying to sleep,” she grouses, leaning against him and tucking her forehead into the curve where his shoulder meets his neck. “We’d better put Baby into sports if we want to sleep at all during their formative years.”

 

“Do you have any particular preferences?” he asks, trying not to laugh.

 

“Soccer. Something to tucker them out,” she says flatly. “And the opportunity for personal harm is much less.”

 

He kisses her forehead. “Come downstairs. MK fixed lunch.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Salad with chicken and mushrooms.”

 

“Okay,” Tara says a little more cheerfully, holding onto Ronin as he pulls her up. “I like mushrooms.”

 

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

 

“No,” she says, and then she reconsiders. “Yes.”

 

“To the bathroom we go,” he says, determinedly cheerful as he settles her in, before getting her one of her maternity dresses. She dresses after she’s done, leaning heavily on him as they go downstairs, and he frets that he should set up a bed downstairs so she doesn’t have to climb.

 

“I hope Baby gets born soon,” she says, rubbing her back with the hand she’s not leaning on him with. “I feel ready to pop.”

 

“Should be soon,” he says, “Is Doctor Sayda going to induce labor?”

 

“We’ve been talking about that,” she admits, climbing down the last steps carefully. “Usually it’s only an option when it goes over 41 weeks. I’m at Week 38. Granted, all of the legal stuff is done, but I need to go through the freezer and get that cleaning service in here and--.”

 

“It will get done,” he tells her firmly, helping her into the dining room, where the plates have been laid out. MK comes in with the salad platter while he’s situating Tara, “Believe me.”

 

“What are you drinking?”

 

“Water,” Tara says.

 

Indeed, she’s sweating, and he passes her a kitchen towel, which she uses to daub at her forehead. “Water too, please,” Ronin tells MK, looking at his wife with concern. “I haven’t seen you do this,” he gestures to the sweating.

 

“Dr. Sayda says this is what I’ll be going through up until the birth,” Tara says, fanning herself and hiding a yawn in her other hand.

 

“Ah,” Ronin says with concern as MK comes back with drinks. As they sit, digging into the salad, Tara turns to MK.

 

“How’s your routine? Do you have a piece yet?”

 

“I think I’ve got something from Murray Gold that works really well,” MK says, “but my audition has to be at most three minutes, so I have to work on it on my laptop to cut out certain parts. Thing is, I don’t know which parts to cut.”

 

“Ah, the trials of a dance student,” Tara says merrily, helping herself to more salad.  It’s the most she’s eaten in the past two days, so Ronin resolves get more salad. He’s willing to buy what she’ll eat. “Nothing classical?”

 

MK wrinkles her nose. “I’ll have to do that during my entire career unless I end up in rock ballet. Let me enjoy this while I can.”

 

Tara laughs at that, stabbing a bite of chicken. “Are you doing straight ballet?”

 

“Yeah, I don’t know how welcome they’d be to mixing my genres. I’ve got the beginning of the routine, but the middle and the end are eluding me, and I think I’ll figure it out once I cut out parts of the song I’ve chosen.”

 

“That’s usually how it happens,” Tara agrees. “So where’s your dad going?”

 

MK shrugs her shoulders. “Camping in the forest on a scientific exploration. It probably means he’s going to shuffle all over the forest and find something out by accident, this being my dad and all.”

 

It’s not as bitter as he expects; instead, it’s fonder more than anything else. Ronin considers her over the rim of his water glass as she continues, “I mean, that’s only how my dad finds anything to begin with.”

 

“Yes,” Tara says, and then she winces, one hand going to her back. “Help, dear.”

 

Ronin gets up like a shot. “Is it labor?”

 

“No, charlie horse, lower back. Please, dear.” Ronin helps her stand, extending the muscle while he places pressure on it. After a moment, Tara relaxes. “Better, but the baby needs me to visit the restroom again.”

 

Ronin glances at MK. “Do you mind?”

 

MK waves them on. “Heaven forbid I stop you.”

 

“That would be bad,” Tara says, waddling to the first floor bathroom and Ronin hurries to keep up. Once she’s settled, she looks up at him. “I’m looking forward to not having to run to the bathroom every five minutes.”

 

“No, your lady parts will just be on fire for the first week or so.”

 

Tara winces. “Dr. Sayda recommends freezing some of the diapers—I mean Maxipads—after drizzling it with witch hazel, so I can use that to alleviate the pain and swelling. That’s something else we need to get, plenty of Maxipads.”

 

“I don’t expect you to move much after the birth,” Ronin says with a tiny smile. “I think I can persuade MK to stay until the first couple of weeks.”

 

“Remember she has to go back to Westchester for the trial.”

 

“Two weeks after you’re supposed to give birth,” Ronin reminds her. “It should be easier by then.”

 

“True,” Tara shifts on the toilet. “Do you honestly think Mandrake would go after her?”

 

“I don’t think _he_ would. Other Boggans, yes. Mandrake doesn’t like to get his hands dirty, and I do think if he could harm her in some way without it being linked to him, he would,” he makes a soft noise at the back of his throat before helping Tara get up. “If we haven’t nailed him by the trial, MK being in Westchester for a couple of weeks would be ideal, because enough time would have passed for her to let her guard down.”

 

“I thought so, but I just wanted you to confirm,” Tara sighs as she washes her hands. “I forget things.”

 

He kisses her cheek. “It’s all right.”

 

As they go back to the table, Tara tells MK, “Thank you for lunch. It’s very good.”

 

“You’re welcome,” MK shrugs. Her plate is clean, but she waits with them until they’re done. Ronin talks over her about doing the dishes, and she helps Tara back upstairs, because Tara decreed she’s going back to bed and that’s that.

 

MK doesn’t argue, just helps her along.

 

By the time MK comes back downstairs, her phone rings, playing the _Downton Abbey_ theme. “Ooops, sorry, that’s mine,” she says, grabbing her phone from the counter. Her face creases in a frown before she answers, “This is MK. Oh hi Eunomia, what’s up?” She gestures she’ll be right back, before walking into the living room. The door’s open, and he’s not _trying_ to hear, but he catches bits.

 

“—prosecutors say what?—how would they—well I’m not technically—so when do I—okay. Yeah, if I—so it’s okay?—All right. I’ll call you later.” Ronin realizes he’s paused in doing the dishes, and he busies himself when MK comes back in, tucking her iPhone into her pocket.

 

“Everything okay?”

 

“Apparently the prosecutors have intercepted some threats from the ‘fans’ of the Westchester Strangler for me,” MK says with a sigh. “My current address hasn’t been listed, but a determined hacker could find me. My lawyer was warning me to watch my mail until the trial.”

 

“People are seriously fans of his?”

 

“You know the weird people who have a fetish for serial killers?” MK says with a sigh, sitting up onto a bar stool and resting her chin in her hands. “In today’s digital world, the Strangler is banking on those people to pay for his legal fees.”

 

“What?”

 

MK threw her hands up in the air. “Look, I don’t get it either, but there are some people who are, like, excited by what he did,” disgust curls under her words, “and apparently the fact that he’s murdered at least four people in terrible ways is not a drawback at _all_. Like, the fact that he strangled women and then--,” she cuts herself off, breathing deeply. “Like I said. I don’t get it.”

 

“And they’re apparently threatening you?”

 

“They’re going to be a little surprised when police knock on their doors,” MK says lightly, “since they’re not only threatening me, they’re threatening a material witness.”

 

Ronin nods, smiling slightly. “That should be interesting.”

 

“Yeah, but I still don’t get the mindset,” she grouses. “Either way, the prosecution has assured me I don’t need to testify until the second-to-last week, right before the investigating FBI agent.”

 

“What does that mean for you?”

 

“It means I don’t need to be there in the flesh until then. I should be, for my mom, but I just can’t handle being there in the courtroom, listening to everything else...I’m not brave enough.”

 

“It’s not an issue of bravery,” Ronin says softly. “You have the right to set boundaries of what you will and won’t listen to. That’s not wrong.”

 

“I still feel like I should be there for the whole trial, but I just—can’t.” MK drags a hand over her face. “I need to go for a walk, do you need me for anything?”

 

“No, go ahead,” he tells her. “I have work to do, so I’ll probably be in the study.”

 

She nods. “I’ll be back.”

 

After she walks out of the house, Ronin goes to check on Tara. She’s still somewhat awake, but clearly on her way to dreamland. “You come to tuck me in?” she mutters as he sits down next to her.

 

“Just thought I’d check on you.”

 

“M’okay,” she sighs. “Even Baby’s asleep.”

 

He kisses her forehead. “Sleep tight.”

 

Tara hums agreement, her eyelids slipping shut.

 

He stays for a bit longer, watching over his wife, before he heads back downstairs to get back to work.

 

\--

 

Nod lets himself in to the Rings of Knowledge, whistling. He and Finn broke up a Boggan altercation late last night and he’s still a little stiff, but he’s in a good mood.

 

MK’s eyes widen when she sees him. “What happened to your face?”

 

She must be referring to his black eye. “Oh, nothing much,” he says breezily, “just broke up a fight. We match!”

 

“How charming,” she mutters. “I’ve got customers,” she warns him, heading around the counter.

 

Translation: don’t try anything.

 

He watches her talk to two kids, directing them to fantasy. They end up buying Tamora Pierce, something that makes MK happy (if the curl to her lips is anything to go by), and once they’re gone, he swaggers over to her. She’s straightening up the bookshelves, but she doesn’t look at him, so he winds an arm around her waist, tugging her into him while he presses a kiss behind her ear.

 

This close, he hears her breath hitch, and he _likes_ it, so he winds his other arm around her, and she clutches his arm as her knees give out. “If you mark me,” she rasps out, “I will—oh god—kill you.”

 

“Well, that seems counterproductive,” he comments, blowing on the shell of her ear. She squirms, “Given the obvious.”

 

“Nod,” she gasps, and he rumbles in approval. He’d like to hear that more often. “Let me go. Please.”

 

For a quarter of a second, he wants to ignore that, but it wouldn’t be right, so with no complaint, he lets her go and she takes two steps away. “Sorry,” she says, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I just—needed a moment.”

 

“That’s fine,” he tells her, warning to grasp her arm, but she’s sending off major signals of DON’T TOUCH ME, so he doesn’t. “Is it something that I did?”

 

“No, I just felt trapped—it wasn’t you.”

 

“Okay,” he tells her. She stretches, and he appreciates how her black tee clings to her body. “Did you dance today?”

 

“Yeah,” she yawns, “Got a lot done, actually. I’m just a little sore.”

 

“How’s living with Tara and Ronin?”

 

“Tara’s sleeping a lot, can’t blame her, and Ronin’s fine,” she shrugs. “Tara wanted to tell me something today, but she didn’t a chance. Wonder what it was.”

 

“Have you officially met Mub and Grub then?”

 

“Grub’s sweet. Mub is—little odd,” MK wrinkles her nose. “I get the feeling he’d hit on me if I wasn’t underage.”

 

“Yeah, he’s—weird. How soon until you turn eighteen?”

 

“September 1st,” she tells him.

 

“We’ll have to plan something special,” he muses.

 

“All right, hot shot, when’s your birthday?” she says archly, turning toward him.

 

“March 29th,” he says, smirking at her. “Don’t worry, we’ll do something special for that too.”

 

“You’re cute,” she says flatly.

 

He presses a kiss to the top of her hand. “I hope so.”

 

\--

 

Ronin hides a yawn in his hands as he walks up the steps into the station. Lunch with Tara had been interesting—they’d finally agreed on names for the baby, only now that it was after lunch, Tara was going to bed, and yawns were contagious.

 

“Chief?” He stops to see Bufo lounging against the stone wall of the steps. “Can we talk?”

 

“Step into my office,” he says, pausing.

 

“Nah, your office is bugged. Walk with me.”

 

“My office is _bugged_?”

 

“Mandrake had it done when you became Chief. How do you think he knows about the raids?” Bufo raises a brow. “Walk with me, please.”

 

It’s the ‘please’ that does it. He moves away from the stairs, following Bufo to the back of the station and into the park. It’s extensive, with a section devoted to a playground and also a copse of trees that rarely gets used by anyone except joggers. Bufo heads for there, hands in pockets. “I understand you’ve been having some trouble since Thursday,” Bufo starts off quietly once they’re alone and out of sight. “And also that you’ve been having trouble nailing Mandrake to the wall for anything more than vague intimidation.”

 

“How do you know what happened?” Ronin says suspiciously.

 

“Unlike Mandrake, I know how to talk to Marcos Gutiérrez. Story is, Dagda pissed off the wrong guy and got stabbed, right?”

 

“Yes,” Ronin says carefully.

 

“Dagda’s the lynchpin of Mandrake, you know. Man cared more about him than anyone except his dead wife. Now that Dagda’s gone, Mandrake’s gone a little crazy.”

 

“Grief does strange things,” Ronin says tersely.

 

Bufo rolls his eyes. “Well, in the mess-up around Dagda’s death, Mandrake isn’t being too careful where he stores his drugs.”

 

“Are you tipping me off? _You_? What do you want?”

 

“I want my racing to be uninvestigated. Stop sending your green officers to me to prove that they can do shit,” Bufo says flatly.  “It’s not harming anyone.”

 

“It’s illegal by state and city ordinances, as is gambling,” Ronin observes, “and fights are not unusual on the nights you hold your races.”

 

“Let me keep worry about the violence, and I’ll make sure it never lands on your desk as long as you look the other way about my racing.” Bufo gazes at him. “How badly do you want to get Mandrake? Especially that he’s more likely to do things like attempt to kill your pregnant wife or that traumatized girl.”

 

“You get six months,” Ronin snaps.

 

“A year.”

 

“Nine months.”

 

“Fair enough,” Bufo nods. “I’ll keep it clean.”

 

“How am I going to report this tip? From you?”

 

“I value my life,” Bufo says with a shudder. “Anonymously. I’ll give you enough to get into the warehouses, and that should stand up on its own.”

 

“Which warehouses?”

 

“The only ones that didn’t get burned down.”

 

“Bufo, there are twelve out of twenty that are still standing. You can’t imagine that I’d believe he stores enough drugs to fill _twelve_.”

 

“He spaces it out, you see,” Bufo spreads his hands. “Just a little bit in each warehouse, and intimidates the other owners in that section of town to allow it. If they go to you, suddenly drugs appear in their house. And their kids’ rooms. And in their wife’s purses. They know what happens to them if one of them goes to you, and they’re too afraid of Mandrake to all go to you.”

 

“So what, I get a warrant to search all twelve and convince the owners to turn in Mandrake in exchange for a plea bargain for them?”

 

“Hey, I don’t make the law,” Bufo shrugs. “You gotta figure that out yourself. The other thing? I’d make sure that traumatized girl is never alone.”

 

“Have you heard things?”

 

“Mandrake’s not gunning for her—yet—but the only reason why he’s still in charge is because the other Boggans are idiots. _They’re_ gunning for her. She put Dagda in jail, and that’s where he died.”

 

Ronin looks at Bufo then. “Marcos is remarkably circumspect,” he says slowly, “and I _know_ he doesn’t talk to anyone about what goes down, except maybe me. There’s no way he’d talk to you.”

 

Bufo shrugs. “I can reach where Mandrake can’t.”

 

“Did you--.”

 

“Whatever you do, don’t say you got this from me,” Bufo warns, standing up straight.

 

“I wish you’d pick a side,” Ronin tells him.

 

“I just did,” Bufo shrugs, ambling off.

 

Ronin walks back to the station, but before he enters his office, he taps on Annalise’s desk. “Can you get two pairs of nitrile gloves?”

 

“Sure,” Annalise says, furrowing her brow. “Should I get Arya too?”

 

“That might be a good plan. Nod’s not back yet?”

 

“He and Finn are out attending to a domestic disturbance,” she tells him, getting up. “I’ll be right back.”

 

In very little time, she and Arya return, and they step into his office, tugging on the blue nitrile gloves as he closes the door. He holds a finger to his lips, grabbing a pad of paper and writing, _Got a tip office is bugged. Help me find it._

 

Both women nod, and they start checking his office. It would have to be someplace that he hasn’t touched since he first got the office six years ago, and he pops open the top drawer. In the back corner, covered by enough detritus, he runs a careful finger behind the wall of the drawer, and he feels something move that shouldn’t. He pinches it between thumb and forefinger, and draws it out.

 

Sure enough, it’s a bug. He pulls it out carefully, and when he turns to look at Arya and Annalise, they also have found bugs. 3 bugs for him? Perhaps Mandrake was relying on him finding one of them and letting it go.

 

Arya gestures for the bugs, and once she has them, she uses a pair of tweezers to cut off the wires that connect to the recording part of the device. “Let me take them to the lab and I’ll see if I can get fingerprints,” Arya says grimly. “If Mandrake or Dagda’s fingerprints are on them, that’s something we can use.”

 

“Thank you.” Ronin turns to Annalise. “Is Judge Dike back from vacation?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Call her and tell her I’ll see her in an hour.”

 

“Yes _sir_.”

 

\--

 

For MK, the rest of the week passes in a blur. She gets up at eight, eats breakfast with Tara (who then waddles back to bed), heads out once Mub and Grub get there, dances for two hours (her routine is now actually a routine. It’s the bones of a routine, but a routine nonetheless), takes a shower at the dance school, and gets to work with time to spare. Nod’s busier this week, but he manages to make time to come see her, even if it’s for maybe fifteen to thirty minutes at a time (that’s when Finn knocks on the window), and then she heads back to Ronin and Tara’s, where Grub’s made dinner and then she and Tara knit and read before Ronin comes home.

 

The one thing that disrupts the routine is her Wednesday night self-defense class, and it, well, it goes badly.

 

She’s sparring with Aisling (okay, Aisling is going easy on her, but it’s a work out and she’s gotten Aisling at _least_ twice...or wait, 1.5 times. Still. It matters), when she hears a guy call, “Anna?”

 

She freezes, catching a punch to the solar plexus. Aisling’s face twists in horror. “MK, are you all right?”

 

MK gives her the universal, ‘Give me 5’ sign while she bends over, trying to catch her breath. When she gets it back, she stands up slowly while Aisling braces her. “What happened?”

 

“Guy over there called for an Anna,” she says. “I—I reacted. Sorry.”

 

Aisling frowns. She turns around. “James?”

 

The guy breaks away from a clutch of women and comes over. “Hey, Aisling! Have you seen Anna? She was supposed to be here tonight.”

 

“She isn’t here,” Aisling says, tossing her head. “Have you tried calling her?”

 

“I did try that—woah,” James trips over the mat, catching himself on MK’s shoulder. “Oops, sorry.”

 

MK’s eyes widen, and she backs away. “You okay?” James asks, reaching for her.

 

Aisling bats it away, and she turns to face MK. “Mary Katherine, breathe,” Aisling instructs. MK stares at her, her heart pounding.

 

“I—I--.”

 

“Go,” Aisling snaps at James. He goes. “Mary Katherine, look at me,” she says quietly. “Do you need to take something?”

 

“I don’t take anti-anxiety meds,” she gasps out. “I don’t want to until I pass the initial 3-6 month period of survivor PTSD.”

 

“Breathe,” Aisling orders, and MK breathes, in and out, focusing on the smell of Lysol and lady sweat that hangs over the room like a cloud. Her heart rate goes down, and that’s when she realizes her shirt is completely damp from sweat.

 

“Oh, that was bad,” MK says, feeling her muscles start to relax. “I didn’t know that was a trigger phrase.”

 

“Please accept that I am not a medical professional, but it appears that you are not a seeing mental health professional,” Aisling observes. “Perhaps you should look into that.”

 

“I’m starting to think that should be a thing.” MK glances around. “Would you guys take it weird if I decided to leave early tonight?”

 

“Feel free,” Aisling says, looking over her.

 

MK nods, changing in the woman’s locker room before heading out. She sees Ronin’s door still open, so she walks over, knocking on the door. He looks up. “Hey, do you have the number of the police psychologist?”

 

“Yes,” Ronin says, opening a drawer and scanning through it before he grabs a business card. “Her name is Anna Moore. Are you considering getting help?”

 

“I’m tired of panic attacks,” she says, taking the card. “I know I won’t get better right away, but it’s a start.”

 

“One step at a time.” Ronin takes off his glasses, tucking them into a case. “Tell you what, I’ll walk you home. The letters are blurring anyway.”

 

“I am a little surprised that you all are so paper dependent,” she comments as he grabs his briefcase and his jacket. He lays the briefcase on his desk as he pulls on his sports coat, and as they walk out, she sees him roll his eyes.

 

“I want us on tablets, but Tara’s focusing on education at the moment.”

 

“If they’re still reading Orson Scott Card, it _needs_ her attention,” MK shivers.

 

“So did something spur the sudden ‘I’d like some help now’ or was it a general ‘I’m tired of panic attacks?’”

 

“I’m assuming you read the FBI report in its entirety,” she says.

 

Ronin stops her with a hand to her shoulder. “I want to hear what you have to say.”

 

Oh god, this is hard. “When he—you know—saw that I was in the room, he turned...he turned away from my mother and said, ‘Oops. Sorry.’” She swallows the lump past her throat. “A guy told me that tonight because he ran into me by accident, and I had a panic attack. Aisling asked me if I took anything for them, and I told her I don’t, because most survivors of trauma—according to the National Institute of Mental Health—only get the PTSD symptoms for 3-6 months, and I thought I could wait it out. I don’t want to take psychiatric meds, even if there’s a doc who’d give them to me.”

 

“But...” Ronin says as they start to walk.

 

“I think I need some help,” she confesses.

 

“I’m aware of your nightmares,” Ronin tells her as they walk down the street and over a block. “The empty glass in the dishwasher says a lot,” he says dryly when she looks at him.

 

She could be embarrassed or upset, but she chooses not to go that route. She looks up at him and says, “Personal experience?”

 

“Oh yes.”

 

“It sucks,” she says with feeling.

 

“That, I can concur with.” He eyes her. “Has anyone hassled you at the dance school?”

 

“No, should someone?”

 

“I wish you wouldn’t go there alone,” he says, frowning as they approach the front door of the Mayor’s mansion. “I understand anyone who would go with you is otherwise occupied in the morning, but it’s fairly _away_ from the rest of the town should you get into trouble.”

 

“That’s why I have Nod’s number on speed dial,” she says, holding the door for him.

 

“It wouldn’t be good enough should something happen,” he warns her, waiting until she’s inside to lock the door.

 

“That’s what my Taser is for.”

 

Ronin drops the subject as he sees Tara asleep on the couch, her book to one side, but she can tell he’ll bring it up again at the next opportunity. She pauses with one foot on the step of the stairs, watching Ronin tuck a blanket around his wife, and his expression is so tender that her heart squeezes. She turns to go upstairs, because she can’t deal with that tonight.

 

She takes a long shower, and by the time she’s done and in bed, she feels marginally better.

 

The rest of the week goes like that. She sets up an appointment with Anna Moore and sets the date for her audition with Tisch (November 7th, at 1:30 in the afternoon, _and_ they’ll let her use their practice space in the morning), and all in all, the week’s been you win some, you lose some.

 

Until she stops home quickly on Friday morning to pick up the newspaper and finds a package laid at the front door, addressed to her from an address she hasn’t seen.

 

She eyes it, not daring to pick it up. It could be something conventional, like a bomb, or it could be spring-loaded with something like ricin or anthrax. She’s not taking the chance. She hits speed dial. “Hey Nod? I’ve got a mysterious package on my doorstep, and it looks pretty suspicious.”

 

“I’m on my way,” Nod says. “Don’t pick it up.”

 

“I’m not entirely stupid.”

 

“Still. We’ll get a squad out there, hold tight.”

 

Ronin, Arya, Jansen (who apparently heads up the bomb squad—she’s only met him in passing), and Nod show up about ten minutes later.

 

“You just found it here?” Jansen inquires. He’s a tall, lanky black man, and he pulls on a pair of gloves as he talks. “You didn’t touch it?”

 

“No. My lawyer warned me some people might risk sending me things as part of the trial.” She wonders if she’ll have to explain. When Jansen nods, she knows she won’t.

 

“I’ve already called the local FBI liaison, and they’ll be here to pick it up from us,” Ronin tells her as Arya and Jansen spar back and forth with the x-ray machine thing. “If it was sent to you as a threat from that cause, they’ll need it anyway.”

 

“Are you okay?” Nod asks, holding onto her upper arm and rubbing her skin with his thumb.

 

“I’m fine. I actually am okay, more than I thought I would be.”

 

“You did the right thing,” Arya call after she takes a few pictures.

 

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” MK mutters.

 

“It’s your run-of-the-mill pipe bomb,” Jansen pronounces later. He seems disgusted. “Spring loaded so that whoever opened the package would have it blow up in their face. Amateurs.”

 

“Isn’t that ridiculously harmful?”

 

“Exactly,” and yeah, that’s disgust in Jansen’s voice. “Sending bombs through the mail is an incredibly inefficient way to murder someone.”

 

“And with that, we will take the package and leave,” Ronin says, squeezing her shoulder before walking down to the evidence van. “Is it taken care of, Jansen?”

 

“Yeah, the FBI should be happy enough with it,” Jansen mutters. He nods to her, and Arya squeezes her arm as she follows. Nod kisses her cheek. “See you later?”

 

“Counting down the minutes,” she says dryly.

 

Nod grins. “That’s what I like to hear.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief PSA for those looking to get pregnant: The first two weeks after the birth, you're going to bleed. A lot. If you gave birth naturally, your nether regions are also going to hurt. A lot. One thing that I kept coming across when I was doing research was that if you take witch hazel extract (an astringent, excellent for bring down swelling and the like, and you can get it at your local market or grocery in the face/skin care aisles), and pour it over whatever pad you're using to soak up the blood, and then you freeze it, it will help with the pain from the recovery, as well as helping the swelling go down. 
> 
> It's also recommended that you have your house cleaned from top to bottom about a week or two before the birth, and have some frozen dinners to tide you over the first week to two weeks, because being tired will definitely be a thing. Making sure your child will be on your health insurance is also a good thing to do before said child makes their debut into the world. Just letting you know.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General trigger warning for discussion of triggers, PTSD, ableism, pregnancy, violence, blood, and guns. There's also explicit content near the end.

**CHAPTER SIX**

“I don’t know, Ronin,” Mayet Dike says, gesturing for a refill of her scotch from the bartender. “Your evidence is fairly circumstantial.”

 

Ronin sips his own scotch. “Out of the three bugs that we found in my office, we managed to lift a single smudged partial that is a seven point match to Dagda Zerfall.”

 

“Smudged?”

 

“It’s likely he planted them while wearing latex gloves,” Ronin confirms. “It’s only been within the last couple of years that the FBI discovered you can still leave fingerprints in latex gloves.”

 

“That’s not enough—7 points isn’t a full match.”

 

“And when we looked at the devices themselves—or at least, when Arya Hypatia looked at the devices—we found that they were from the same manufacturer, and that they were gradually the updated versions of the same listening device. When we contacted the only seller in the area, asking for the person who bought any one of these three, we got a few names: Bomba Radcliffe, Jerry Trevor, and Rovar Kukac, who was one of Dagda’s lieutenants.”

 

“And?”

 

“Bomba Radcliffe bought the earliest model and hasn’t bought it since. Jerry Trevor bought one and returned it, and on top of that, the seller offers a discount for government workers and private investigators, and he’s the town’s resident PI. However, Rovar Kukac bought all three, and isn’t it interesting that he recently died of an OD of cocaine, along with truth serum in his system?”

 

“Do you have evidence linking Rovar Kukac to Dagda?”

 

He slides her a folder as he finishes his scotch. She peers through it, and she nods. “All right, I’ll get the search warrant for those warehouses in the morning. Are you about to explain why you wanted this meeting at the Hummingbird Café, instead of at my office?”

 

“I got a tip that my office was bugged, so while I met with you I sent over two of my people to trawl over your office for bugs as well. While you were in the restroom, I got a text saying that they found a few, including in your phone. They’re in the process of finding fingerprints.”

 

“My office was bugged? They bugged a _government office_?”

 

“Yes,” Ronin says grimly. He toasts her. “The end is in view.”

 

“His arrogance has reached too far,” she bites out, draining the rest of her scotch. “I’ll make sure you get those search warrants, but we need the testimony of the owners to link it to him. Keep it within the law, none of yours rushing off half-cocked or even _seeming_ like they’ll be using Jack Bauer’s stellar interrogation techniques. If they so much as shove a Boggan, that automatically weakens the case.”

 

“My people will act appropriately,” he promises. “Have you heard from Mable?”

 

“The last I heard, he’s still in the Hamptons.”

 

“He’s not there anymore,” Ronin tells her, laying down a few bills for the bartender, who takes it with a nod of thanks. “He left yesterday morning to come back here.”

 

“And yet he’s not here. You think something happened?”

 

“It hasn’t been 48 hours yet, but his wife’s frantic. She keeps calling Annalise from the Hamptons, saying that he hasn’t checked in with her yet.”

 

Mayet closes her eyes and breathes out. “There’s conspiracy everywhere.”

 

“I’m just telling you this because starting tomorrow, I’m assigning a detail to you until this plays out to the end.”

 

“You think he’d be so careless?”

 

“At this point? I do.”

 

She sighs. “Tell me about Dr. Benjamin Rush.”

 

“We arrested him a few days ago for selling patient information, and as it turns out when we get questioned him, he has sold many patients’ information to the Boggans. In this case, it was Mary Katherine Kennedy’s records, and as that is a federal crime, we turned him over to the appropriate authorities after we questioned him.”

 

“You could arrest Mandrake for that.”

 

“Indeed we could, but Dr. Rush never dealt with Mandrake directly, and his lawyer could say one of his lieutenants bought it and passed along the information, which may be enough to sway a jury. We’ll add on the charge once we’ve arrested him.”

 

“How’s your wife?” she asks, getting up.

 

“Officially ready for the baby to be born,” he tells her, offering her her coat. She takes it, slipping it on as he holds the door open for her. “We didn’t have lunch today, just brought her soup in bed.”

 

“Must be soon, then, she swore she’d only stop Sunday lunches once she was within a week of delivery. Are you excited?”

 

“Concerned, mostly,” he admits. “It’s been a difficult pregnancy.”

 

She reaches out and squeezes his arm. “Go easy on the safety precautions,” she advises as she whistles down a cab. “And good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

“Same to you,” he says, watching her get into the cab before turning to walk home.

 

\--

 

“Tell me about your mother,” Dr. Moore says, leaning back in her chair. Her red hair blazes against the white leather of her chair, and MK tugs her own in response.

 

“Like what?”

 

“Cherished memories, her quirks, her flaws—whatever you feel like telling me.”

 

“Well, my mom had this—unabashed love for bad spy novels. She loved espionage and intrigue, and we watched a lot of shows that featured it, like _Person of Interest_ or _Veronica Mars_.” MK smiles slightly, remembering the books and movies her mom would buy without a second thought if they were spy-themed. “She said they made her think, and ergo, made her a better person.

 

“She also justified her emotions and her circumstances through what she’s read and watched. Like, ‘I can do this. If Veronica can get through her circumstances, so can I.’ ‘Even Reese was distressed at losing his partner.’ I never got why she felt she needed to justify how she felt, because she never told me why. I think I finally came to the conclusion that when she was younger, she was treated badly by someone who wouldn’t give legitimacy to how she felt.” MK shrugs. “Mom only liked to tell me the good things.”

 

“How did your mother deal with bad things?”

 

“Well, it depends,” MK scratches behind her ears. “If it was something she could control, she’d plot. If it was something she couldn’t, she’d take a day or so to be unhappy about it, but then she moved on.”

 

“How did your mother deal with the bad things that happened to you?”

 

“Up until her murder, the only bad things I really had to deal with were disappointments—I didn’t get the lead in the production, I failed a test—nothing major. When I broke up with my first serious boyfriend, she took me into the city for the day, and we wandered through the Met and had dinner at one of the more exclusive restaurants.” MK smiles at the memory. “There were two more boyfriends after Chase, and after the break-up, we always did something like that—attend a Broadway show or go to the Museum of Natural History. She didn’t want my memories to be only the bad things.”

 

“Chase? Did your mom like him?”

 

“She thought he was okay. He was a senior to my sophomore, and he was sweet and said all the right things but,” MK shrugs. “He was going to UC-Berkeley, and I wasn’t willing to wait for him. It was a fairly amicable break-up. He came to her funeral.”

 

“And the other two?”

 

“Karl and Michael. She didn’t like Karl, but he was ho—attractive, and he had nice hands, but he liked control a little too much. That break-up was nastier. Michael was one of my partners from my dance school, and we had a lot of chemistry, and we took a chance. He was my first, and Mom knew—she even made sure I was on the Pill—he was good, but after my mom was murdered, he told me it was over. He just couldn’t handle it.”

 

“Did that hurt?”

 

“Of course it hurt,” she snaps, but there’s no bite to it. “But I couldn’t blame him. In the aftermath, I was front and center in the media, and Michael couldn’t afford that kind of scrutiny. His parents were here on green cards, and it doesn’t take long for the media to jump from green cards to ‘undocumented.’”

 

“You seem very hostile to news media,” Dr. Moore observes.

 

“It doesn’t do its job,” she says flatly. “According to FBI statistics, there are maybe 20 serial killers operating in a single year. How many of them do we hear about if the victims are poor, people of color, sex workers, or somehow disenfranchised? They use peoples’ disaster to pay for their work—which means they’ll never feature stories that don’t pay for themselves. It’s a terrible business model, based on exploitation. My tragedy was turned into fodder that would pay for the existence of the medium.”

 

“You didn’t talk to reporters,” Dr. Moore says. “Is that why?”

 

“Yeah, so that meant they had to track down all of my closest family and friends,” she replies, and good lord what a disaster _that_ had been. “And my lawyer also recommended I stay away from the media. I didn’t need the reminder.”

 

“How do you think your mom would feel about this?”

 

“I think she’d be bemused,” MK says softly, for once not feeling the stab of pain talking about her mother usually inspires. “She used the media when she needed to drum up publicity—‘It’s all scripted,’ she would tell me—but for the most part, if we looked for news we looked for independent sources with a body on the ground.”

 

“We’re done for today,” Dr. Moore says, smiling slightly, “but I’ll see you on Thursday.”

 

“Yeah, see you,” she answers, biting off her intended reply.

 

“I’d like to talk more about your relationships then, if that’s all right.”

 

“Sure, why not?”

 

“Have a good day at work.”

 

“You too.”

 

\--

 

“Well, don’t you look immersed,” Nod teases. It’s clear MK’s the only one in the bookshop—she only reads when there’s no one in. “What are you reading today?”

 

“ _A Wrinkle in Time_ ,” she says, putting a bookmark in and looking up at him. Her eyes are a little puffy, but her skin isn’t red and her eyes are clear, so maybe she just didn’t get enough sleep last night. “It was one of the first books I read to myself, and I needed an old friend today.”

 

She thinks of books...as old friends. Okay. “Ronin may have mentioned something about you meeting with Dr. Moore. She’s pretty cool, for a civil servant.”

 

“Aren’t you technically a civil servant?” she asks pointedly as he comes around the counter. When he wraps an arm around her shoulders, she buries her face against his stomach. She only does that when she’s upset, so he wraps his other arm around her, rubbing her back.

 

“I don’t think so,” he frowns. “Civil servants are like, the paper pushers of the government, right?”

 

She snorts, but doesn’t press the subject. He tries to think of things to say that aren’t completely inappropriate, and he lands on, “Did it go okay?”

 

She pushes away from him. “I didn’t cry, so I consider that a win.”

 

“Right on,” he offers his fist to her, and she pounds it, laughing a little.

 

“How long are you here for today?”

 

“About thirty minutes,” he tells her as he sits on the counter. “Finn’s filling something out for Ronin, and since I’ve been doing all the legwork, he’s been doing the paperwork. I like that better.”

 

“Oh no, the dreaded paperwork,” she says, rolling her eyes.

 

“It’s amazing I graduated high school,” he says earnestly.

 

“Oh, you did?” she keeps her face straight, but then covers her mouth with her hand as he pouts at her, her eyes crinkled up in her smile. “How?”

 

“Through charm alone,” he says in a huff. He nudges her legging-clad knee with the toe of his shoe, and she jumps slightly. He’d figured out weeks ago that her knees were sensitive, but it’s nice to have repeated confirmation. “And possibly blowjobs.”

 

She raises her eyebrows. “Oh? _You_ had sexcapades?”

 

“I traded sexual favors for studying tips,” he tells her, biting his lip to hold back his laughter. She looks wide-eyed, and she can be more than a little gullible when she’s at ease. There’s some truth to it—he did try to date the smartest girls in high school to help with his own work, and he helped Marie, Lauren, Alexandra, and Lana relax after studying was done—but he’s deliberately making it sound dirtier than it was, just to see if she believes him. “I passed all of my classes.”

 

“Put that pretty mouth of yours to good work, huh?” she says, and then she blushes, thus nullifying the general dirtiness of what she just said.

 

It amuses him _hugely_.

 

“I can put it to good use right now,” he offers, leaning forward slightly.

 

Her blush becomes pinker, spreading down her neck and her chest. He wants to see if it goes everywhere. “That’s um, not necessary,” she stutters.

 

“Are you _sure_?” he murmurs. He lifts her chin, brushing her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “I can think of a couple of things.”

 

The door’s bell dings obnoxiously, and she jumps away, falling off of her stool and catching herself on her hands. When she stands up right, beet red, she says, “Welcome to the Rings of Knowledge, I’m MK--.”

 

“Hi MK,” Finn says, grinning. “Can Nod come out to play?”

 

“Please,” she says, shoving at Nod. He jumps off the counter, and before she’s aware of it, he’s swept her into a dip and he kisses her deeply. She clutches at him, but he can feel her laughter where they’re plastered together, chest to thighs. “Was that necessary?” she asks when he pulls away to look at her fully.

 

He kisses her again. “Yes.” With that same graceful sweep, he deposits her back onto her feet, kissing her cheek as she clutches the counter once he releases her. “See you later.”

 

She can’t quite muster a response, and he considers that _awesome_. Once he and Finn have left, Finn punches him in the shoulder. “You ridiculous, romantic bastard.”

 

“I know who my parents are, _and_ they were married,” Nod says. He grins, “Besides, it’s fun to mess with her sometimes. She’ll have concocted revenge by the next time I see her.”

 

“And you’ll deserve it too,” Finn mutters. “You’re on guard duty for Judge Dike,” he tells him. “Where she goes, you go—in the mornings. Jansen will relieve you in the afternoons, and Bobby goes with her in the evenings. That’s starting tomorrow.”

 

“Did she give Ronin the warrants?”

 

“Yep,” Finn says grimly. “We’re moving tonight.”

 

Finally, they might be able to get out of this dumb stalemate. “Am I a part of this?”

 

“Do you want to be?”

 

“Hell yeah!”

 

“Then you’re a part of this.”

 

\--

 

“’In a surprising move by Chief Ronin Vigile, twelve warehouses were searched late last night. The warrants stated that they were looking for drugs, and while KBTA-9 has not yet been informed whether they found what they were looking for, Moonhaven police officers were spotted carrying crates out of each warehouse. These warehouses are owned by five different people, John--.’”

 

“Please turn that off,” Ronin calls into the living room. He’s making a quick breakfast for the three of them, and MK hasn’t come down the stairs yet. “I already told you everything.”

 

“I want to know about the weather,” Tara calls back, but the TV gets muted, and he’s grateful for it.

 

They’re doing cinnamon oatmeal, because Tara’s stomach is as sensitive as it was in the first trimester, and the only thing she could keep down in the mornings was cinnamon oatmeal. There will be plenty of fruit to go with it, though.

 

MK comes down the stairs, hurriedly pulling up her hair. “Sorry, sorry.”

 

“You’re just in time,” Ronin reassures her, pulling three cereal bowls out of the cabinets. “Oatmeal?”

 

“ _God_ yes. Are we eating in the living room?”

 

“Unless you’re willing to get Tara to the table,” he shrugs, giving MK two bowls. She rolls her eyes at him, before turning on her heel to head into the living room. He follows with the fruit platter (with three forks) and his own oatmeal.

 

Tara is sitting back on the couch, and he joins her as MK sits on the floor at Tara’s feet, her back to the footrest of the couch. Tara unmutes the news in time to have the weather, “And Tammy, today promises to be in the fifties with a 50% chance of rain.”

 

“Doesn’t this state know it’s _summer_?” Tara grouses. “We’re the only place in Connecticut where it’s this cold.”

 

“Eat up,” Ronin says helpfully.

 

Tara makes a face at him before eating. MK says nothing, but when he glances at her he sees she’s pressed her lips together and her shoulders are shaking slightly.

 

Good god, could they _be_ any more married, he knows she’s thinking. It’s written all over her face.

 

“Are you practicing today?” Tara asks in between bites. This is likely the most she will eat before dinner, so he’s glad to see she’s practically licking the bowl clean.

 

“Yes, I didn’t get the chance yesterday.”

 

“How did your session with Dr. Moore go?”

 

“She’s nice,” MK tells him, “and we talked mostly about my mom.”

 

“That makes sense,” Tara remarks. “Are you all right?”

 

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

Ronin checks his watch. “I need to go in.” He swoops in and kisses Tara on the cheek. “I’ll see you both tonight.”

 

He’s got 5 warehouse owners hissing and spitting in his office when he comes in, and he hides a smile as he directs Aisling to place each of them in a separate interrogation room. She, Phoebe, Martin, Liesl, and George are in charge of interrogating them, and he drifts between each, figuring out that it’s the same story.

 

“Mandrake Zerfall threatened—”

 

“My wife and my baby girl—”

 

“If we didn’t let him store his drugs—”

 

“Or let him use the warehouses to hide—”

 

“Anything he needed hiding.”

 

All five of them are so anxious not to be punished for this that they’re cooperating fully without a lawyer, and the DA, Will Jones, is more than happy to give them immunity if they’ll testify in court.

 

Their testimony is strong, but they need the evidence to back it up too. They got drugs in their search last night, but forensic evidence linking it to Mandrake would be nice.

 

The tests will take a couple of days. He doubts Mandrake is going to run—it’s not his way—but he puts highway patrol on alert as a just in case measure.

 

He can feel his skin buzz with anticipation. The end is finally in sight.

 

\--

 

“Don’t forget under the window display,” Nim reminds her as he wipes down the counter. He grimaces. “Parents should just not let their kids bring food and drink into bookshops, for crying out loud.”

 

MK wrinkles her nose as she sprays down the floor. “And it’s _forty degrees outside_. Who buys their kid ice cream when it’s _forty degrees outside?_ ”

 

“Obviously these parents,” Nim mutters, scrubbing at the counter mess. “Once you clean that up, feel free to go home. I have to mark the ruined books out of stock.”

 

MK winces. “You do that.”

 

She wipes up the last bit of vanilla ice cream, before disposing of the paper towels and washing her hands. Nim’s growling at the register, and she takes her leave. Angry Nim is not someone she wants to deal with.

 

Nod texted her earlier to let her know he was tied up at work, so she wouldn’t be able to see him much today. She heads back to Tara and Ronin’s—there’s honestly not much to do at night when you don’t have anyone to hang out with, and she lets her Taser rest in the heel of her hand while she unfolds the umbrella with the other.

 

Apart from the rain and the chill of the wind, it’s nice enough. Work wasn’t awful, except for that poor child who came in with his father and ended up dropping his ice cream cup over the drama section. The child was horrified, but the father less so.

 

MK grumbles quietly. People suck.

 

“Ronin’s still at work,” Grub tells her when she walks through the door. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, but his shirt is pressed as always, but he’s tired—even his curls are lank.

 

“Tough day?” she asks, putting her umbrella into the holder by the door and taking off her coat. “I thought Tara was at the mostly-sleep stage.”

 

“We had a false alarm today,” Grub says. “Dr. Sayda met us at the hospital, and that’s when we realized it was false labor. Tara’s asleep, but we were panicking for a while.”

 

MK winces. “So I’m guessing she’s going to sleep for the rest of the night?”

 

“Dr. Sayda recommended light foods. Mub’s already ordered Chinese, with egg drop soup for her. When she wakes up, that’s what I’d give her.”

 

“Hey MK,” Mub swaggers into the foyer, and MK sees Grub roll his eyes. “Can I get you anything?”

 

“No, I’m good, Mub,” she says politely. “But thank you.”

 

“Ronin called about an hour ago, says he’s going to be late. That could mean he’s home at 10, or home at 2. Don’t wait up,” Grub tells her, grabbing his own coat from the closet and passing Mub his. She steps out of the way as Grub leaves, dragging Mub along. She closes the door with a soft _snick_ , going upstairs to remove her boots and grab her knitting.

 

Tara’s asleep on the couch, feet up and buried in blankets. Her face is half-turned into a pillow and her hair is loose, and even being this close to giving birth, she’s still one of the most beautiful women MK’s ever seen.

 

She’s more than a little jealous. If/when she ends up pregnant, she probably won’t look that good. Maybe it’s _magic,_ she jokes to herself, and focuses on the blanket she’s making with yellow cotton yarn. It’s the softest yarn she could get, and she’s deliberately making it bigger than your standard baby blanket. It gets cold in Connecticut, and layers help.

 

She stops when her fingers start to complain, and she looks up and realizes that it’s almost ten. Her stomach rumbles threateningly, and she heads into the kitchen to help herself to whatever’s left over. The egg drop soup occupies its own corner in the fridge, but there’s noodles and dumplings, and she grabs those and a plate. As she’s warming them up in the microwave, she hears the door open and in response, she grabs another plate.

 

Ronin comes in just as the microwave dings. He looks tired as he sits down at the bar, and she places the plate in front of him along with silverware, sliding the next plate in. “What would you like to drink?”

 

“Water,” he says, yawning. “How long has Tara been asleep?”

 

“Since I got here at 7:30. Grub told me they had a false alarm today.”

 

Ronin’s eyes narrow. “They went to hospital?”

 

“Apparently,” MK says, “Dr. Sayda met them there, and she figured out it was a false alarm, so back home they came. Does that mean it’s close?”

 

“It’s very close,” he confirms as she gets him a glass of water. “Thank you.”

 

The microwave dings and once she has her food and necessary silverware, she clambers onto the bar stool next to him. “Are you going to the class tomorrow night?”

 

“No, I don’t think so,” she shakes her head. “I’ve been kinda tired lately, and if Tara’s getting this close, I should be here.”

 

“Thank you,” he repeats, sincerity underlining every word. “I appreciate this.”

 

“It’s not an issue,” she says. “You’ve been really good to me.”  There’s more she’d like to say—how easily they’ve welcomed her and made her feel at home, and how much more comfortable she feels here than in her own home, how here it feels like it doesn’t matter that she’s the reason her mother is dead. There’s no easy way to say that, so she bites it back, but the meaning is clear.

 

Ronin claps her on the shoulder. “If you wish to go to bed, you can. I’ll make sure she’s all right.”

 

She nods. “I will,” she hastily eats that last bite of dumpling, before taking care of her dishes and heading upstairs with her knitting. Going to bed fairly early will be a thing. She’s decided it.

 

\--

 

When Ronin comes home on Wednesday for lunch, he enters the living room to catch Tara’s conversation. She smiles at him but holds up her hand as she speaks, “Hello, Ms. Daly? My name is Tara Sylva, and I was calling about a student who will be auditioning in November for a spot in the dance program,” Tara listens for a moment. “Her name is Mary Katherine Kennedy and—oh, you know who she is? Great. Anyway, I was calling to let you know that she recently clinched the lead in our town production of _Swan Lake_ , and she’s also going to be working as assistant choreographer. Hm? Oh yes. I’m willing to vouch for her. Tara Sylva—T like Terrence, A R A  S like silver Y L V A. My phone number is 860-955-4712. Have a good day!” She hangs up the phone and grins at him. “Hello, dear. Here for lunch?”

 

“And gratuitous nepotism, apparently,” he says dryly, leaning down to kiss her.

 

Tara wrinkles her nose. “Nepotism is such—an _ugly_ word.”

 

“MK didn’t tell me she got the lead.”

 

“I found out from Olivia,” Tara says, patting the couch next to her, and he sits with good grace, offering her half a veggie sandwich. She takes it. “Apparently Mary Katherine kept quiet about it, since she wasn’t entirely certain if she’d get the part. She auditioned the same time she asked Olivia about practice space.”

 

“That was weeks ago.”

 

“Girl knows how to keep a secret,” Tara agrees. “I’m putting her in charge of your Christmas presents. She may actually be able to outwit you.”

 

“It could be fun to see her try. So you called Tisch to—what, guarantee her a space?”

 

“More like—encourage her judges to look at her more closely. She still has to nail the audition, that’s on her, but I merely widened the door.”

 

“Trickster,” Ronin says fondly.

 

“You love it,” Tara says.

 

“Indeed,” he tells her. “Eat up. I have to be back at work soon.”

 

She nods, biting into her sandwich, leaning against him. She gets crumbs on his pants, but he finds he doesn’t mind. He rests his cheek against her hair, and wishes he didn’t have to leave within half an hour. But Arya has a report for him on the drugs taken from the warehouses, and if it is what he thinks it is, they could be arresting Mandrake tomorrow or Friday.

 

No, he has to go. Even if he doesn’t want to.

 

\--

 

“Tell me about your relationship with your father.”

 

“Can we start with something less complicated?”

 

“All right,” Dr. Moore says agreeably. “Tell me about Ronin and Tara.”

 

“They’re like—super married. If there was a Married Olympics, they’d get the gold.” MK bites her lip—the only way this therapy thing works is if she’s honest, and there’s just something inherently trustworthy about Dr. Moore. “They’ve gone to no small amount of trouble to make sure that I feel welcome. I feel like Ronin gets me better than Dad does.”

 

“Why do you say that?”

 

“Well, Ronin gets my damage, and he doesn’t judge me for it. Not that Dad judges me for it, but he—doesn’t get it. His knowledge of PTSD and associated anxiety and panic issues are all academic, and my symptoms don’t always follow the guidelines, so he’s not sure what to do. Because of that, he walks on eggshells around me. That just makes me feel worse. Ronin, on the other hand, gets my damage, gets where I’m coming from, and just—moves on. I’m not a walking disorder to him. And Tara reminds me of Mom—they had the same playfulness, but there’s also this core of strength. Mom was fairly typically feminine and friendly and just generally compassionate, but she could turn steely in a flash while remaining polite. Tara, like, _feels_ the same way. I haven’t seen Tara get steely, but I doubt people give her a reason to, you know?”

 

“It usually is not wise to give the mayor cause to turn steely on you,” Dr. Moore agrees.

 

“And—this is gonna sound weird—but I don’t feel the need to perform for them. I can sit with Tara or Ronin, reading or knitting or embroidering, and we don’t _need_ to talk. We can stay wrapped up in what we’re doing without having to justify it. I can’t knit or embroider around my dad. He always wants to talk, and—being crafty is the way I get rid of my stress. I don’t _mind_ talking while I’m being crafty, but I hate being _forced_ to.”

 

“Have you told your father this?”

 

MK sighs. “Dad’s been alone for so long he’s forgotten how to adjust to regular people. I’ve tried to mention it, y’know, like ‘hey dad, I need to focus on my needlework.’ He’ll usually say, ‘Okay sweetie!’ but in five minutes, he’s babbling about the nesting habits of silver-haired bats or something. I’ve just...stopped being crafty while he’s in the room, and we don’t share a lot of room, often. He’s got his experiments, I’ve got work, and the most time we spend together is when we’re eating. It’s like we’re roommates, not family.”

 

“Do you want that to change?”

 

MK falls silent, tracing the pattern of the couch with her finger. “I don’t know,” she says at last. “Dad just kinda grates on me, because he can’t read me, well, at all. And I honestly think if I didn’t live with him, we’d never see each other, but we don’t know how to spend time together. I don’t really care about bats, and he cares about nothing else. He approves of Nod—like I needed Dad’s approval—but he doesn’t ask about the development of that relationship, or how my dance routine is going, or even if I have funny stories from work. Which I do, by the way.”

 

“You feel he doesn’t care, because he can’t step into your space.”

 

“Yeah, exactly. And I know relationships are a two-way street, but that’s why you have to find stuff to compromise on. I really don’t care about bats. His research caused the end of his marriage.”

 

“And it continues to alienate you, so you’ll never see it as something positive.”

 

“Yeah, exactly.”

 

“So once you turn eighteen, what are you going to do? Are you going to move out?”

 

“I haven’t decided yet,” MK answers. “I’m living in an apartment-style dorm at NYU, and it’s not furnished, so I’ll need _some_ furniture and everything, but I don’t know if I want to go through an entire year of living alone only to suddenly have to share space with complete strangers.”

 

“You don’t want that kind of transition,” Dr. Moore summarizes.

 

“Yeah. Though by the time I turn 18, I may want some kind of break from Dad.”

 

“You’re currently living with Tara and Ronin--.”

 

“Until a couple weeks after Tara gives birth,” MK confirms. “I feel really comfortable there, but I would feel really guilty about asking if I can stay after that. They’ve been really good to me, and that feels like I’d be wearing out my welcome.”

 

“Tara may welcome another pair of hands with an infant,” Dr. Moore suggests quietly, “especially since she’s planning on going back to work as soon as she can.”

 

“Tara can work from home,” MK reminds her. “And she’s got Grub and Mub. Why would she need me?”

 

“Maybe it’s something to think about,” Dr. Moore says. “That’s all. I’ll see you on Monday at the usual time?”

 

“What shall we be discussing then?” MK wrinkles her nose as she gets up, pulling up her bag over her shoulder.

 

Dr. Moore smiles. “Nod.”

 

\--

 

Nod yawns as he sits down at his desk. Finn’s been in since eight, apparently, and he and Ronin are clustered together. Everyone who’s on active duty and not patrol has suited up and are checking their weapons, and he’s triple-checked the straps of his Kevlar and his gun’s in good, working condition—both of his guns (his waist _and_ ankle holster).

 

They’re moving today. Ronin’s going over the logistics of their two-pronged approach with Finn for the millionth time, who’s leading the second group. Finn’s group is going to his house, and Ronin’s group is going to his office. They have the warrant for search and seizure of everything, including bank records.

 

Anticipation fizzles down Nod’s spine. This is finally it—they finally have all of the chess pieces together. (That, by the way, was Finn’s metaphor, not his).

 

He’s in Ronin’s group, probably because he wants desperately to be a part of the group that arrests Mandrake, and Ronin allowed him. Once that door opens, everyone stands at attention and Ronin looks them all over while clasping his hands behind his back. “You all know your groups. You know the plan. Don’t get yourself killed.” The group laughs, and he smiles slightly before focusing again. “Don’t take unnecessary risks. You warn them and they disregard it? Shoot them. Try to get as few of you taken to hospital as possible. I don’t want to fill out the paperwork. Good luck.”

 

Aisling’s running point for Finn, and he’s running point for Ronin. Everyone breaks up into their pairs and heads into their respective vehicles, and he’s riding shotgun with Ronin.

 

“Are you ready for this?” Ronin asks quietly.

 

“Yeah. I’m tired of constantly having to let Boggans go. Let’s end this.”

 

Ronin nods, and they turn on the sirens as an entire calvacade, shrieking towards Mandrake’s office building. They pour of their vehicles in a green mob, storming the doors. The secretaries start screaming as they jump off their chairs and head under their desks. A few of the upper-level Boggans jump out of their office cubicles (Mandrake likes to keep _some_ of the better-educated Boggans as his lieutenants in his legitimate businesses) with sawed-off shotguns, but when they see how badly they’re outnumbered, they lay down their weapons. “Smart decision,” Jansen tells them, taking their shotguns while Phil cuffs them.

 

The further into the office building they go, the more Boggans they run into (if the ‘subtle’ Boggan marks are anything to go by), and by the time they reach the fifth floor, it’s an all-out firefight. Mandrake’s office is down the hall, but they’re nailed down by the elevator, and Nod half-expects Mandrake to come out any second with a fucking rocket launcher.

 

Jansen throws down some flash bombs—he came prepared—and the shooting stops briefly enough for Ronin to get the people that aren’t currently arresting people downstairs to flank the room, and by the time the Boggans can see again, they’re looking down multiple barrels. Nod moves pas them, Ronin following, to kick down Mandrake’s doors and he shouts, “Freeze! Mandrake Zerfall, you are under arrest—where is he?”

 

Ronin looks around the room, and it is completely empty. Nod looks at him, and then together, as one unit, they turn on Mandrake’s aide, who’s currently frozen in place by Alexandra Chang holding her Sig to his face. “Where is he?” Ronin snarls.

 

The aide is visibly sweating bullets. “He never comes into the office here in the mornings.”

 

“So which office does he go to?” Ronin says softly and dangerously.

 

“The o-one at the dance school. It’s been his h-habit in the past couple of w-weeks.’

 

Ronin strides out, Nod struggling to keep up with his taller superior. They meet Jansen at the opening of the building, who looks at them. “We’ve got thirteen of ours injured, and four Boggans dead,” he reports. “We’re going to be tied up here for a while.”

 

“Mandrake’s at the dance school,” Ronin tells him. “Nod and I are going.”

 

“You sure you don’t want any more back-up?”

 

“Who’s available?”

 

Jansen bites his lip. “Fair enough. Good hunting.”

 

Ronin nods as the two of them power-walk to their car. As they speed toward the dance school, Nod’s stomach plummets as he realizes something. “Ronin. Mandrake’s at the dance school.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“ _MK’s_ at the dance school.”

 

Ronin turns to glance at him. “What? Why is she there _today_? I thought she only practiced on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays.”

 

“Her sessions with Dr. Moore have thrown her schedule out of whack,” Nod says, scanning through his phone to get her contact info. He sends her a quick text— _get out of dance school NOW._ When she doesn’t reply, he calls her, but it goes straight to voicemail.

 

“So he’s got a hostage,” Ronin growls.  “Damnit.”

 

His stomach knots in response, and as they pull into the dance school’s parking lot, Nod spots MK’s green bicycle hitched to one of the pillars by the door. On the other side, where MK wouldn’t necessarily have seen it, was a blue Prius—Mandrake’s vehicle. He eyes Ronin, and checks his ammo. It’s low enough that he switches out his magazine for his Beretta. When he’s done with this, he sees that Ronin’s doing the same for his Glock. “Do you remember your hostage training?”

 

“Yeah,” Nod says, gulping slightly. “You know she’s going to fight him, right?”

 

“She may get herself killed but, yes, I recognize she will fight him. Let’s try to take him fast and hard, mitigate the damage.”

 

Nod inclines his head. “Let’s do this.”

 

\--

 

Mandrake leans on his cane and watches Mary Katherine dance through the window of the studio. Her balance is superb, he thinks as he watches her balance on her toes as she thrusts her other foot into the air, creating a perfect line. She then holds it for a second, two, before twisting it downwards into a jump. He can’t hear what the music is, but she’s dancing for at least an hour—her face is slicked with sweat and her chest is heaving.

 

She lands from her jump with her left foot held out, and she turns, balancing on her toes again as she turns four times in quick succession. She jumps up—or tries to—and she lands badly. The base that he _has_ been able to hear cuts off abruptly as she clearly swears at herself, before stretching the lines of her body into something perfect and infinite.

 

His phone buzzes in his suit pocket, and he takes it out to read the text that Aidan sent him. _‘MHPD raid @home @work.’_

 

Well. How tasteless. He puts his phone away, and looks up to realize that since Mary Katherine is no longer practicing, she’s scanned the area around her and looks horrified to see him.

 

That seems as good a time as any to speak with her. He opens the door to the studio just as she rushes to her bag on the shelf on the wall opposite to the door. She hastily ties on her dance skirt, before picking up her bag and checking her phone. “Um, I should go—I have work.”

 

“Please don’t leave on my account,” he says, leaning on his cane by the door. “Your routine looks beautiful.”

 

“It still has some kinks,” she says shortly, patting down her face and neck with a towel.

 

“I must say, watching you practice is one of the few joys I have left,” he tells her with a smile as she pulls on a t-shirt over her leotard. “Tell me, what was the piece?”

 

“A piece by Murray Gold,” she says, watching him like prey watches a predator.

 

“Whom does he work for?”

 

“He works for the BBC,” she says. Her phone buzzes. He can guess what it says.

 

“Ah, that would explain it,” he muses, watching the blood drain from her face as she reads her phone. When she looks up at him, he shrugs. “I do not care for British television.”

 

“I need to go,” she mutters, stepping around him but stopping when he picks up his cane and places it in front of her.

 

“I would prefer it if you did not,” he tells her.

 

“Let me go,” she says tightly.

 

He advances toward her, and she steps back hastily. Her back hits the mirror, and he’s _almost_ in her personal space, but he waits just outside of it. “I still need you.”

 

“No, you really don’t,” she retorts. Her eyes are flickering the space around him, and he sighs internally. She telegraphs her thoughts much too easily.

 

“Tell me, and tell me true—did the Westchester Strangler deliberately go after your mother?”

 

“Why do you care?” she tries to sound tough, but there’s a warble to the end of her words that renders it useless.

 

He clicks his tongue. “I cared for your mother, Mary Katherine. This matters to me.”

 

“No, he didn’t,” she says at last. “He didn’t mean to kill her.”

 

“Do you regret it? Do you wish your positions were changed?”

 

Her eyes dilate, and he continues on that vein. “Do you feel your continued existence is a cosmic mistake, that your mother had to die so that you could live?”

 

She glares at him, and he’s underestimated her because her leg unfurls and kicks the area right above his left knee. Agony rises up like a tide and he starts to fold, and she jumps around him, racing for the door, but his cane has a longer reach, and she trips over it, falling face first onto the wooden floor.

 

He hauls himself up, pulling out his gun and cocking it. The noise is obscene in the silent room, and she looks up, cross-eyed, at the barrel. “I would like you to stay where you are,” he rasps. “I still need you.”

 

“Why?” she says.

 

“Stand,” he orders. When she hesitates, he rolls his eyes. “If you please.”

 

Slowly, she does so, and he pulls her in front of him just as Vigile and the Chercheur boy enter, guns drawn. “Hello gentlemen,” he drawls.

 

Mary Katherine has frozen completely as he places a hand on her waist. Her chest is barely moving, and the boy looks displeased. “Let her go,” he orders, aiming the gun.

 

He clucks in response. “Aiming at a hostage? Very poor form. This is who you trust your back to, Vigile? He’s green. Best throw him back and give him to more time to grow.”

 

“There’s no way you’re walking out of this on top,” Vigile says quietly. “Your assets have been frozen. There’s no magical way out to this. Let her go.”

 

“So, I’m desperate then,” he ponders, frowning at Mary Katherine when she fidgets. She freezes in place when he rests the muzzle against the soft skin behind her ear. “Don’t desperate people do desperate things, or some such—stop _moving_ , girl.” She’s not moving in anticipation of stomping on his foot or instep; she is merely crossing her right foot over her left. Vigile’s eyes are trained on his, and he’s choosing to ignore the boy. “Here is what is going to happen. I am going to get in my car with Mary Katherine, and we are going to drive over the town line. Once I am over the town line, with no pursuers, I will allow Mary Katherine to get out, no harm done.”

 

“Yeah, not going to happen,” the boy says, cocking his gun. Mandrake bites back a laugh at his bravado. “One more chance, Mandrake—step away from her and come quietly.”

 

He bares his teeth in response. “No.”

 

“Your loss,” the boy shrugs, and then he shoots, and Mandrake wants to laugh—the boy’s going to hit Mary Katherine, is he _mad_? Then pain explodes in his right leg, underneath his knee, and that, plus Mary Katherine’s assault earlier, causes him to fall to the floor.

 

Mary Katherine pulls herself from his grasp, and for good measure, kicks his Sig out of his hand before rushing across the room. Vigile advances toward him as the boy pulls Mary Katherine behind him, and when it’s clear that he’s can’t reach his gun, Vigile holsters his and turns him onto his stomach. He hisses in pain as Vigile yanks his arms behind his back. “Mandrake Zerfall, you have the right to remain silent...” As he lists the requisite litany, Mandrake hears the boy say, “We’re going to need an ambulance at the dance school, stat.”

 

“On its way.”

 

Vigile hauls him to his feet. “You _might_ want to call your lawyer.”

 

\--

 

She’s not aware that she’s cold until Nod drapes a MHPD windbreaker around her. She tugs it around her absently, looking at the flashing lights of the ambulance. They’re closing the doors and taking Mandrake to Moonhaven General, and did what just happen actually happen?

 

“—K. MK!” Nod grabs her face and turns her toward him, framing her face with his hands. “Hey. What’s going on in your mind?”

 

“He’s been arrested,” she says slowly.

 

“Yes.”

 

“He will be charged.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And he’ll be found guilty?”

 

“I have reason to believe that,” Ronin says, coming over to her and pushing a cup of coffee into her hands. She drinks it absently, letting the warmth warm her all the way down. “The evidence and charges levied—it will be a long trial.” He seems excited, and she peers at him. “What’s going on?”

 

“Tara went into labor,” he says.

 

Nod straightens. “Let’s go. You should be there for that.”

 

“MK’s statement needs to be made--.”

 

“That can be dealt with later. You need to go now.”

 

MK shrugs her arms through her sleeves and drains her coffee. The slightly-burned taste reminds her it was black without cream or sugar, but the hot caffeine did what the jacket didn’t. “Let’s go, Ronin. It’s your baby.”

 

Ronin doesn’t waste any more time, and they all run to his car. Nod sits in the front seat and MK slides into the back, and Ronin barely manages to keep to the speeding laws as they head toward Moonhaven General. As they get closer, something occurs to her. “Tara’s in labor in Moonhaven General, where Mandrake is also being taken for treatment?”

 

“Moonhaven General’s the only hospital,” Nod tells her.

 

“And how long would it take for Mandrake to discover the Mayor is in labor?”

 

There’s silence, before Ronin swears and stomps down on the gas. MK holds onto the bar of her door, grateful for the seat belt, and by the time they screech to a stop, Ronin’s only bothering to park the car before jumping out, running into the hospital. Nod and MK follow him at a close clip, and a doctor grabs Ronin. “Chief Vigile, we need your information for--,”

 

“Not now, you fool,” Ronin snaps, but the doctor stands his ground.

 

“No, sir, _now_.”

 

Ronin looks at Nod. “Go up to the fourth floor. I’ll be there momentarily.”

 

Nod runs for the elevators, and while MK’s been in the hospital before, she can’t say that it was this busy or chaotic when she was here last. Nod pushes his way past the doctors, pulling her behind him with a grasp on her wrist. “’Scuse us,” he says cheerfully to the nurses and doctors gaping at him. “Important police business.”

 

He closes the doors, and MK taps her foot as the elevator moves up. Nod unhooks the leather clasp over his gun, but he doesn’t take it out—people would panic, she realizes, and she barely manages to keep from panicking herself. When they get to the fourth floor, the floor is divvied up into two areas—the women’s center and the NICU. The women’s center is immediately present, and the nurse directs Nod down the hall and to the left. Tara’s room is not immediately visible, and that makes MK even more wary. They pass the service elevator as they run around the corner, and the guard outside of Tara’s room is slumped against the floor, unconscious. Nod kneels to examine him, and hisses when he finds a bruise against the guard’s jaw. “You hit someone’s jaw when you want to knock them out without causing brain damage,” he explains, throwing open the doors.

 

Tara’s hospital suite has an anteroom, and Tara’s clearly in the room behind it. Mandrake stands in the center of the room, and they see him knock out a nurse. “Zerfall, freeze!” Nod shouts, running at Mandrake.

 

Mandrake turns around and wallops Nod across the head with the tip of his cane. Mandrake’s legs are trembling—the shot leg is wrapped up in stiff white gauze—but he seems limber enough as he throws Nod into the wall. Nod slides down and crumples to the floor, and when MK sees the blood leaking from a cut on his scalp, she yells, “ _Nod_!”

 

“If you walk away right now, you can get him medical attention,” Mandrake doesn’t even bother to look at her as he kneels over Nod’s prone form, grabbing Nod’s gun. “I’m sure you know how nasty head wounds can be.”

 

“Nod would never forgive me, and I would never forgive myself,” she snaps, picking up a broom and sweeping it toward him. He blocks it, twisting the broom handle out of her hands.

 

“This doesn’t concern you.”

 

“The _hell_ it doesn’t,” she retorts, getting in between him and the door. She can hear Tara groaning through labor on the other side of the door, and that just settles her resolve to stay exactly where she is.

 

“Are you determined not to lose another mother figure?” He’s trying for that raspy growl, but he’s clearly in pain and that gives her hope.

 

“You know what? That is none of your damn business.”

 

Mandrake levels the gun at her head, and he cocks it with intent. “For the last time, _get out of the way_.”

 

His hand is shaking too much for that to be a credible threat, but an awry gunshot could hit Tara or one of the nurses. MK frowns, before she grabs the extended wrist and turning into him. She braces her feet and bows forward, throwing him over her shoulder. He screeches in pain once he lands, but he keeps a hold of the gun. He hits her ankles with his cane, and she falls over, landing on her hands and knees. Mandrake jerks the bottom of the cane at her, and she’s pretty sure it’s an accident, but it lands directly between her ribs, driving the breath from her body and throwing her to the side. She tries to get up, but it’s hard, but she is _not_ losing Tara.

 

Mandrake looks at her with shock as she forces herself to stand. He’s up, but his legs are definitely shaking now. “I said no,” she gasps out.

 

“Get out of the _way_ ,” Mandrake spits, pointing the gun at her and she can see him start to squeeze the trigger—

 

A gunshot rings out.

 

It is not Mandrake’s gun.

 

MK looks past Mandrake (and his horrible glassy eyes and the way he’s folding down) to see Ronin standing in the doorway, gun still in his hand. “Are you all right?”

 

“Yeah,” she says. She jerks her head at the door. “Go be with your wife.’

 

He hurries past her, and she goes over to Nod. Ronin brought nurses with him, and they’re already looking him over and calling for a stretcher. “Hey sweetheart,” one of the nurses in blue scrubs says kindly. He holds onto her shoulder, “We’ve got him.”

 

“I’d like to stay with him if that’s all right.”

 

The nurse nods. “That’s okay.”

 

She follows the cadre of nurses as they wheel Nod to the ICU. The fact that he’s unconscious is worrying to them, and she’s worried too. The last thing she hears before she leaves Tara’s hospital suite is the sound of a very unhappy baby, and the fact that Tara went through birth okay gives her enough happiness to get through the coming hours.

 

\--

 

Their daughter is 7 lbs, 2 ozs, with blue eyes and ten fingers and ten toes.

 

Ronin looks at her and falls head-over-heels.

 

Tara’s tired, but according to Doctor Sayda, the labor was a lot shorter than she had anticipated, since she went into the hospital at noon, and their daughter was born at 2:13 in the afternoon.

 

Tara admits to him once she’s passed the afterbirth and has significantly calmed down with their daughter in her arms, nursing her with a serene smile that, “I went into labor early this morning, but I didn’t want to tell you because you needed to arrest Mandrake. You needed to walk in to that situation without being distracted.”

 

“What shall we call her?” Ronin asks, choosing to ignore that in favor of curling around his wife on her extra wide bed.

 

Tara looks up at him. “You wanted to name her Cara.”

 

“She is our beloved, isn’t she?” he brushes a kiss against her forehead.

 

“She is,” she agrees. The baby’s fallen asleep against her breast, and Tara smoothes the little puff of downy hair. “Cara...Anna.”

 

“Anna?”

 

“It’s the least we can do.”

 

“Cara Anna Sylva-Vigile it is.”

 

“Lot of names to live up to,” Tara sighs, her own eyelids fluttering.

 

“Sleep, my love,” Ronin says.

 

Tara smiles at him, before drifting off. The nurse comes in to take Cara, but Ronin glares at her until she leaves.

 

Their daughter is not going to be in a plastic baby Tupperware until they check out tomorrow. Cara is staying with Tara.

 

He should check on Nod before he comes back, and he leaves the two most important women in his life to check on his godson.

 

The ICU’s on the second floor, and he finds his way to Nod’s room. Nod’s asleep on the bed with a bandage wrapped around his skull. MK’s asleep in one of the chairs—her body’s half on the bed, her head cradled by her arms as she holds Nod’s hand. Marina’s in the other chair, awake and knitting. Ronin carefully pulls the third chair over to Marina, hesitant as to how she’d receive him.

 

“Remember the first time Nod was brought in for overnight care?” he asks Marina.

 

Marina snorts. “He’d broken his arm, falling out of the tree that he had climbed to retrieve a neighbor’s toy. Yes, I remember. It was right after Jaeger died.” She sighs, putting aside her knitting. “He’s always made me worry with how reckless he is, how devoted he is to other people. You’ll experience that too, you know. Congratulations on your daughter.”

 

“Has the gossip already spread this far?”

 

“This far and beyond,” Marina says, but she’s not being rude. “The entire hospital’s stuck between that and how Mandrake Zerfall ended up in the morgue. Not that I blame them—Mandrake should’ve been in the morgue a long time ago.” She looks at him. “They say you did it.”

 

“I did. He was going to kill MK, and then most likely Tara.”

 

“Thank you,” Marina says, looking back at Nod. “He killed Jaeger. It was only right you returned the favor.”

 

“Does this mean our silent conflict is over?”

 

Marina sighs. “Since my son’s determined to have this girl in his life, it’ll have to be.”

 

“Do you object to her?”

 

“I’m afraid she’ll break his heart, just like every parent fears. But I don’t object to her.” Marina touches his arm. “You should be with your wife. I’ve got this.”

 

“Good night, Marina.”

 

“Good night, Chief.” She hasn’t called him Chief since before Jaeger died. He smiles at her, before heading back upstairs.

 

Cara wakes up in the night hungry, and Tara wakes up—meaning _he_ wakes up—long enough to switch Cara to the other breast. “She’s perfect,” Tara whispers as Cara eats.

 

She actually looks a little like an alien, with big eyes and a wrinkled face, but she’s his alien and he loves her. Cara starts to cry after she’s drunk her fill, and Tara picks her up carefully and places her on her shoulder, rubbing her back until Cara burps and looks very surprised at it.

 

Ronin laughs as Tara carefully wraps up Cara again, nestling her in her arms. “Back to sleep,” she yawns, leaning her head against Ronin’s chest. He wraps his right arm loosely over the two of them, and goes back to sleep.

 

In the morning, he’s packing up Tara’s bag when MK comes by and knocks on the door. “Good morning Mary Katherine,” Tara beams.

 

“Oh, is that her?” MK’s face lights up in a way he’s never seen. “May I?”

 

“Of course,” Tara tells her, carefully moving Cara so MK can look at her face.

 

“She’s so beautiful,” MK breathes as Cara blinks at the redhead. Cara’s little hand waves, and MK lets her grasp her index finger. “Oh, she’s going to be strong,” MK predicts, smiling from ear to ear. “What did you name her?”

 

“Cara,” Tara says, smiling at them. “Cara Anna.”

 

MK’s eyes widen as she looks from Tara to Ronin. When Ronin nods, MK’s eyes fill with tears. “It’s a beautiful name,” MK manages as Cara decides she’d like to suck on MK’s finger. “Sweetie, don’t do that,” MK says gently, removing her finger. She blinks, but there’s already a tear escaping.

 

“Don’t cry,” Tara beseeches. She looks close to crying herself. “I’ve still got hormones circulating my body, so if you cry, I’ll start crying, and then Cara will cry, and then Ronin will cry.”

 

MK hiccups into a laugh as she wipes her cheeks. “You didn’t have to do that.”

 

Ronin places a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Yes, we did.”

 

“We did,” Tara agrees, squeezing MK’s hand. “Your mother would be proud of you, Mary Katherine.”

 

MK looks like she’ll start sobbing any moment, and her eyes are going to overflow in a second. “I—I hope she would,” she manages.

 

Ronin squeezes her shoulder. “She would. Now, what did you need to tell me?” Tara gives him a narrow eyed look, but MK needed the subject change.

 

MK breathes in deeply. “I’m taking Nod home—the doctors cleared him, it was a basic linear fracture, and apparently he’s very lucky, but he needs rest for a while and he shouldn’t be alone. Marina suggested I take him home, so I won’t be in tonight or tomorrow night, most likely. We’ll see where he is from there.”

 

“That’s fine,” Tara says, looking down at Cara, who’s lost interest in MK and has gone back to sleep. “I’m going to be sleeping a lot over the next two days anyway.”

 

“I didn’t want you to feel like I was abandoning you,” MK says anxiously.

 

Tara rolls her eyes. “My sweet child, nothing could be further from the case. Go home with Nod, and enjoy yourselves.” She waggles her eyebrows, and MK blushes.

 

“I don’t know if _that’s_ cleared by the doctors.”

 

“Oh, if you do it right it shouldn’t jar him too much,” Tara says wickedly.

 

“Tara,” he scolds good-naturedly, “don’t assail our barely one-day-old child with lewd talk.”

 

“How do you think she got here?”

 

“And I am leaving now,” MK says quickly, standing up. “I’ll see you guys later. And congratulations!”

 

Ronin smiles at Tara. “Apparently we can scandalize the younger generation before our own daughter’s grown up enough to appreciate it.”

 

“I’m happy we’ve done this,” Tara says, kissing the top of his hand. “Now when can we have number two?”

 

“As soon as you’ve healed from the process of birthing number one,” he deadpans, leaning down to kiss her forehead before going back to packing.

 

\--

 

“Woah, easy,” MK says, catching him as he starts to slide. He smiles at her.

 

“You’re so cute when you’re worried about me.”

 

“And you’re adorable with a skull fracture. Can I have the key?”

 

“It’s in my pocket,” he slurs, and when she reaches into his pocket with a sigh, he says, “That’s right, baby.”

 

“If this is what you’re like when you’re drunk I only ever want to see you sober,” she mutters.

 

“Never been drunk,” he informs the world as she maneuvers him into his apartment. “Just...injured.”

 

“To bed with you,” she orders as she closes the door and locks it. He grabs her hands and blinks at her.

 

“Sleep with me?”

 

“Nod, we can’t--.”

 

“Not sex,” he says, though a distant part of his mind says, _Yes, that would be nice too_. “Sleep. With me. Please?”

 

She sighs, but she can’t resist him pouting, just as he knew she wouldn’t. “Fine, but you need to get into bed while I put away the groceries your mom gave me.”

 

“Fine!” he chirps, staggering to bed while she heads into the kitchen. He strips down to his boxers and crawls underneath the covers. He always sleeps better in his bed, and he rests his cheek on the old, soft cotton of his pillowcase and sighs happily. MK comes in not long after that, and he says, “No jeans. They hurt.”

 

He can hear her roll her eyes. “ _Fine_.” He pats the space beside him, and she comes around on the other side, her long legs lithe and gorgeous. She catches his eyes, and she says, “Don’t even think about it.”

 

“Awww,” he whines as she lifts the blankets and gets in. Once she’s within grabbing distance, he wraps an arm around her waist and tugs her to him, slowly adjusting her until she fits into the curve of his body with their feet tangled together. He presses a dry kiss to the back of her neck. “ _Sleep_ ,” he begs, resting his forehead in her curve of her neck.

 

She raises her hand and weaves their fingers together on her stomach, and before he’s consciously aware of it, they’ve both slipped into sleep.

 

They wake up off and on over the course of Saturday. She wakes him up to urge him to visit the restroom and to eat, but they always end up back in their sprawl (he’s not too proud to admit he begs). At one point, she leaves to take a shower, and when she comes back, he realizes she’s wearing his shower soap. He pulls her over until her head is on his chest, and he tells her, “You have _no_ idea how fucking happy you just made my inner caveman.”

 

“Can your inner caveman please go brush his teeth?”

 

He gets up, and the more he sleeps, the better he feels.

 

They sleep in late Sunday morning, and she gets up to brush her teeth, and he joins her at the sink. Her hair is loose down her back, and it smells like him (he has to bend past her to spit in the sink, and each time, her hair brushes him in the face).

 

When she smiles at him in the mirror, he realizes two very important things:

 

1)    He is almost painfully hard, and since he’s in boxers, there’s no way to hide it without looking even more foolish.

2)    She looks absolutely beautiful in nothing but a cami and pair of underwear, and he realizes this is what he wants to wake up to for the rest of his life. He wants _her,_ with her prickliness and her damage and her good humor, for the rest of their lives.

 

When she leans over to spit for the last time, she bumps into him, and when she looks down, he realizes that she realizes he’s hard. He waits for the comment, but when it doesn’t come he allows himself to smirk, ever so slightly. “You know, the doctors said I could exert myself if I did it carefully.”

 

“So?” she asks, her eyes veiled as she considers him.

 

“You want to be on top?” he offers.

 

She coughs, looking startled. “I--.”

 

“Only if you want to,” he rushes on. “If you don’t want this—well, now would be the time to tell me that.”

 

“No,” she murmurs. She steps closer to him, rising on her toes to look him in the eye. “I want this.”

 

“Great,” he says blissfully, picking her up by her thighs and carrying her to the bed. She laughs in his ear as she winds her arms around his neck for balance, only to lose it when he tosses her onto the sheets with a soft _‘oomph.’_ He crawls over her, and she props herself up on her elbows to kiss him. He finally allows himself to wind his fingers in her beautiful hair, and it’s just as soft as he thought it would be. She traces the seam of his lips with her tongue, and when he opens his mouth, they realize they taste the same, since they used his toothpaste. Her eyes sparkle with humor, and he pushes her down on the bed so that they’re touching, chest to thigh, while he ravishes her mouth.

 

In the meantime, his hands are moving down her sides, tweaking a nipple before holding onto her hips, and she moans when he presses his thumbs in to the sensitive skin above her hips. He pulls back, because that is _weird_ place for an erogenous zone, and he decides to experiment by pulling up her cami (she pulls it off and throws it off somewhere; he rumbles against her skin his approval for it), kissing those same areas and hearing her moan. Yep, definitely an erogenous zone.

 

He scrapes his teeth across her skin, and she arches off the bed, knotting her fingers in his hair. “Oh,” she sighs, “that feels good.”

 

“It should,” he says, moving up until he can kiss her again. She responds eagerly, moving her leg over his waist and pulling him down until she can grind up against him. “However,” he gasps against her, “if you keep that up, we’re not going to get to the main event.”

 

“And you’ve been aiming for that since you met me,” she laughs.

 

He thinks about laughing, but the way she’s said makes him take a mental step back. He pulls up, looking down at her. “What?” he frowns.

 

She blinks. “Well, haven’t you? Nod, the first thing you said to me was ‘are you cold or just happy to see me.’ What’s a girl supposed to think?”

 

“I apologized for that.”

 

“And you haven’t stopped with the whole coming-on-to-me,” she points out, sitting up and covering her chest with her arms. “Honestly, what am I supposed to think?”

 

“When I told you this wasn’t a fling,” he says quietly. His dick is losing all interest, and he feels sad because he knows exactly where this is going. “That this was serious to me, even if—in your words—you thought it would in heartbreak.”

 

“You switch between genuine and lewd so often I can’t tell when you mean something or not.” She’s being defensive, and he knows she’s not telling the whole truth, but it’s a fair point to raise.

 

He stands up, heading to his closet to pull on a shirt. “You should leave.”

 

“W-what?”

 

When he looks over at her, running his fingers through his hair, he sees her pulling on her cami. “This is me saying something that I mean. You are not a fling to me, Mary Katherine Kennedy, and I want this to be important to the both of us. But it doesn’t sound like it’s important to you, so you need to leave. I’ll call my mom just to make sure I don’t slip and fall in the shower.” He watches her pull on a tee and her jeans. “I won’t see you until you’ve made your decision as to what we have is worth keeping.”

 

She doesn’t say anything, and she looks fine, which makes his heart sink. He doesn’t know if he can deal with this, with losing her, but this is something he needs to stand strong on. This has to be important to her too.

 

MK stops by the door, and she looks at him. “Feel better, Nod.” With that, she disappears and he hears the apartment door close a moment later.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7 ended up at almost 90 pages, so I divided it up into two parts. Part One has *major* trigger warnings for violence, strangulation, implied assault, and PTSD.

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

“So, you’re upset because you and Nod had a fight?”

 

“It wasn’t exactly a fight,” MK says, tracing the couch patterns. “And—what he said was fair, even if he’s had issues saying what he means for a while.”

 

“Tell me why you’re upset,” Dr. Moore says gently, leaning forward.

 

She sighs. “I’m seventeen years old. Teenage relationships don’t last.”

 

“Is that you saying that?”

 

“Statistically, that’s true,” MK reminds her. “And I’m traumatized, and what happens if he realizes the only reason why he was attracted to me is so that he could be my white knight? And once I’m better, he leaves me in favor of someone more damaged?”

 

“Do you really believe that of him?”

 

“No,” she mutters. “But he’s nineteen, and I don’t understand why he’s willing to say that this relationship is _that_ important to him. I’m leaving next August.”

 

“Are you planning on coming back?”

 

“Well...” her voice trails off. “At first I wasn’t, because I hate small towns with passion. But the people who’ve been so welcome to me have done so much for me, and I like them and I’d like to come and see them.”

 

“Would you live here?”

 

“I don’t know, and until I know, I’m afraid to promise anything.”

 

“That sounds like the relationship could be very serious,” Dr. Moore observes.

 

“I’ve never really done casual relationships,” she admits. “I’ve gone on dates, but usually when I’m dating someone, I’m _dating_ them. And from the way he talks about it, we’d be serious.”

 

“Are you afraid of it?”

 

“Yes,” she blurts, and her cheeks heat. Dr. Moore takes this in stride, and she sits back, waiting for MK to continue. “Ever since I lost Mom, it’s been made really clear to me how easily it could happen again. If Mandrake had struck Nod harder, we could be looking at Nod in the morgue or with permanent damage. He’s a cop, and yeah, the Boggans have been neutralized, but they’re not all gone, and he could be hurt.”

 

“You run that risk with anyone. It’s just magnified when they’re a cop,” Dr. Moore muses.

 

“And if I meet someone in the city, how do I react? Like, Nod and I get along, but we’re different people, and he doesn’t always get where I’m coming from, and I definitely don’t get it with him.”

 

“And ifs and buts were candy and nuts, we’d all have a merry Christmas,” Dr. Moore smiles. “Stripping the extraneous from this situation, MK, do you want this relationship with him?”

 

“I don’t know,” she says, turning so her back’s to the couch’s armrest and pulling up her knees until she can rest her chin on them. “I’m attracted to him, but you can’t base a relationship on lust.”

 

“Can you see being happy with him, even if it’s only for a little while?”

 

“Yeah,” MK whispers. “I could.”

 

\--

 

Ronin’s only a little surprised when he gets up with Cara in the middle of the night to find MK already awake. She’s sitting in the living room with a glass of water on the coffee table, and it looks untouched. Cara fusses, and he clucks to her as he puts on her on the diaper-changing table on the bar. “Nightmares again?” he asks MK, seeing that Cara only wet her diaper. Cara burbles at him as he wipes her clean, before fastening a fresh diaper and tossing the old.

 

“Just a little one,” MK says absently, sipping her water. “Barely a blip on the nightmare scale.”

 

He washes his hands before wrapping his daughter back in her blankets. She’s not hungry—it’s not the right kind of cry—and he moves over to sit with MK on the couch. Cara nestles into his arms and goes straight to sleep. “If it was so small, why are you up?”

 

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping. I slept so much on Saturday that my sleep schedule’s wrecked.”

 

“Plus getting up with Cara isn’t easy either,” he adds, since MK has been doing what she can to help with the baby so that Tara can rest. “What’s on your mind?”

 

“The way you talk about Nod sometimes, or talk _to_ him—it’s clear that he’s different around you than he is around me. When he’s around me, he’s playful and flirtatious, but he can be genuine. What’s he like around you?”

 

This _has_ to do with the fact that she came in on Sunday afternoon, pale and upset. She sat with Tara for a while, cooing to Cara while Tara napped on the couch, and she looked a little better, but he can tell she’s still upset.

 

She’ll tell him if she wants to.

 

“He can be...incredibly reckless,” he sighs. “He can be selfish, driven, and insubordinate. But—he can be gentle and protective, and I will say this: he has matured incredibly since he met you. I don’t know if it’s because of you or if that’s when things escalated with Mandrake and he rose to the challenge, but he’s more cautious now, and he thinks things through more. He needs to work on his observation, but his potential for being a great detective has always been there.” He smothers a quiet laugh—Cara isn’t the type to cry and cry, but he doesn’t want to wake her up. “He’s always been curious, and he would get into scrapes when he was younger because he hated how some of the neighborhood girls were treated by the boys. He thought I recruited him to the Academy because of his father, but it was because I knew he’d make a great detective, given half a chance. I always let him believe it was because of his dad, though, because he was contrary and stubborn, and if he thought I wanted him to be a great detective, he’d work his hardest to be a beat cop.”

 

“Sounds like him,” she comments. More quietly, she asks, “What was his dad like?”

 

“A lot like Nod,” he says, adjusting Cara so he can lean back without changing her position. “He was reckless, passionate—he got all of us to sneak by Marina’s while he was courting her, leave her a flower so that by the time he showed up with the last one, the bouquet meant ‘I love you.’ Marina knows floriography,” he clarifies when she looks confused.  “He was so proud when Nod was born—brought him by all the time, got him into the department football games. But there was this strength to Jaeger, that if you needed him to do something, he’d do it without a second thought. He had a strong sense of right and wrong, and he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you about it. Nod grew up in Jaeger’s shadow, and I know I didn’t help on that front. I wonder if that’s why Nod does some of the things he does—like committing. He’s not good at it, and I’ve only seen him to commit to something when it’s exceedingly important to him.”

 

MK’s face falls. “I see,” she says softly.

 

“Why do you ask?” _Does this have something to do with the fact that you walked in here on Sunday afternoon, pale and upset_?

 

“Curious. Nod doesn’t mention his dad much, but it’s always in glowing terms. I know that we can look at the memory of our parents and be kinda blinded.”

 

Cara shifts, tucking her face more securely against the cotton of his shirt. He cradles her head, smiling. “Oh yes,” he agrees. “From what I remember of my parents, I remember them as happy, loving people.”

 

“Are your parents dead?”

 

“Yes,” he says. “My mother died of ovarian cancer when I was twenty-two; my father followed not long after. He had been devoted to her, and losing her devastated him. He officially died of a heart attack; I think he died of a broken heart.”

 

“That sucks, I’m sorry.”

 

“My mother was ready to go by the end,” he says. “She told my father she’d be there waiting for him.”

 

“So it was a peaceful passing?”

 

“As peaceful as it gets,” he confirms. “I wish my parents had been here to see their grandchild, but I know that wherever they are, they’re happy, and that means more.”

 

“My mom’s never going to get the chance to see my children,” she says, and he looks over at her to see if she’s okay. Her eyes are misting slightly, but otherwise she seems stable. “She liked to tease me about my kids, say that red hair’s going to be in the Kennedy family for generations. She joked that she would spoil them rotten.”

 

“As the best grandparents do,” he says, yawning.

 

She jumps. “You should go back to bed, you have work in the morning. God, I am just--.”

 

“MK,” he says firmly, cutting her off. “It’s fine. Believe me, it’s all right. I should put Cara back in her crib, though.” He looks at his daughter fondly. “It hopefully won’t wake her up.”

 

“She’s the most placid newborn I’ve ever seen,” MK says affectionately, smiling at Cara.

 

It’s a common reaction. He’s not quite to the time where he’d take Cara in to show off (she needs to be a little older and less alien-looking), but everyone wants to meet her.

 

He’s so proud, it feels like his heart is going to burst. “She is,” he says. He stands up in a strange, stacking motion so that Cara isn’t jostled by it. “Good night, MK.”

 

“Good night, Ronin,” she says, draining her water. “See you in the morning.”

 

\--

 

“I understand your day at work was Nod-free,” Tara remarks as MK enters the living room, putting aside her bag on the table and taking out her knitting. She’s been knitting off and on all day. She finished the baby blanket—Cara’s currently wrapped in it—but now she’s just knitting aimlessly, in different-colored 7x7 squares. She got four done earlier, and she’s on the fifth. “Was that odd?”

 

MK looks down at her knitting, a deep teal square, and tries to figure out how to put the feeling of looking at the door with anticipation whenever the little bell rang, or staring at her phone and wondering what to say. “Um. Yeah.”

 

“You going to tell me what happened, or should I guess?” Tara’s smile flashes at her before she tucks it away, adjusting Cara to the other breast. “I could probably get it.”

 

And...she probably would. “Nod realized there was a fundamental miscommunication in what I thought he wanted and what he thought I knew he wanted. He laid down an ultimatum,” she says tonelessly, tugging another line of yarn as she finishes up a row. “He’s willing to put himself out there, and he wants this relationship, but I have to want it as much as he does.”

 

“So what’s the problem?” Tara lifts Cara and starts to burp her.

 

“Well, I don’t know if this is something I want,” she says, frustrated.

 

Tara laughs. “Sweetie. You wouldn’t have been brooding about it as much as you have if you didn’t. You’re just _afraid_ because you don’t want to be hurt again.”

 

“That’s fair.”

 

“Mary Katherine, your mother died, but Anna wouldn’t have wanted you to stop living. Part of living is the risk of loss and pain.”

 

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” MK blurts.

 

Tara smiles. “Now _that_ is silly.” When Cara burps, looking very surprised, Tara pulls her shirt closed and wraps up Cara before putting her in the bassinet that has permanent residence in the living room. When she’s put down for her (afternoon) nap or for the night, it’s in the crib, but when the rest of them are awake or around, she goes into the baby bassinet. “Did I ever tell you how Ronin and I met?”

 

“No, I think you failed to mention that,” MK says dryly.

 

Tara settles in next to her. “Oh believe me, Ronin’s embarrassed about it to this _day_.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Tara!” Obie calls from down the hall. Tara swears to herself and runs around the corner. Olivia’s been really clear that Obie wants to ask her to Homecoming, and while a senior wants to take her is flattering, it’s not when it’s _Obie_.

 

He’s engaged in an ongoing issue with Anya, and while Obie’s always flirted with her, Tara never wants to get between them, because Anya will kill her and hide the body without a second thought.

 

“Tara,” Obie says more persistently, and she ducks into the next door she sees.

 

The smell of boy sweat, dead socks, and mildew invades her nose, and she coughs when she realizes she’s in the boy’s locker room.

 

Well, that’s _her_ fault when she’s getting out of science club and avoiding Obie Moirai.

 

She doesn’t want to risk sitting on anything (what if she gets hepatitis?), so she walks through the locker room carefully. It’s empty, which is a relief—there’s an exit from the girl’s locker room into the gym, and it’s not entirely impossible to imagine the boy’s locker room has something similar.

 

She rounds a corner and a boy is scrubbing his hair dry with a towel clasped around his hips. She freezes, but before the boy sees her, he takes off the lower towel, turning to reach for his clothes.

 

Which is when he sees her.

 

They stare at each other in mutual ‘ _oh shit_ ’, before she really looks at him and realizes he’s _built_. Her eyes trail down, and she licks her lips unconsciously when she sees his, um, manhood. As she looks back up at his face, she sees his face is pink and he slowly lowers his hands, his towel clasped in his hand.

 

“I’m sorry,” she blurts.

 

“Can you turn around?” he says tightly. “Or _leave_? I know I’m new here, but somehow I thought that by gendering the locker rooms it would guarantee some kind of privacy.”

 

“Normally it would,” she agrees, turning around. His accent is _gorgeous_. “But I’m currently ducking Obie Moirai, because he’s determined to ask me to Homecoming.”

 

“Can’t you just say no?” he says. She hears the rustle that means he’s putting on clothes.

 

“Obie Moirai is the type to tell you what a bitch you are if you refuse him, and besides, he’s trying to get back at Anya Faye. I’m trying to keep out of it.”

 

“Isn’t he the president of the senior class?” she hears him zip up, and she turns around to see him put on a shirt. She pouts, which makes him redden even more and pull on a jacket.

 

“Yeah, he is,” she sighs. “I’m president of the sophomore class, so I kinda can’t avoid him.”

 

“I see.” He grabs his bag, “In that case, walk out with me. He should leave you alone after that.”

 

She doesn’t know about that, but as she walks over to him, she sticks out her hand. “I’m Tara Sylva, by the way.”

 

His grip has calluses she’s not used to from her peers. “Ronin Vigile. Fifth year—oh damn your school system, I think it’s junior?”

 

“Yeah,” she says, tucking a curl behind her ear. As Ronin pushes the door open, she feels his other hand touch the small of her back.

 

Obie’s on the other side of the door, fidgeting with his glasses. “Tara, I--,” he stops when he sees Ronin, who’s easily bigger than him by two inches. At least.

 

Ronin turns to her. “Will you come to Homecoming with me?”

 

She feels a slow smile spread across her face. “Yeah, okay.”

 

“I’ll talk to you later,” he tells her, but before he walks away, she sees him smile slightly.

 

Tara breathes in deeply, turning to Obie. “You wanted to talk to me about something?”

 

Obie has a general look of ‘what the fuck just happened?’ He snaps out of it to say, “I had some student council stuff, but it can wait until tomorrow.”

 

“All right. See you tomorrow, Obie.”

 

* * *

 

 

“So you walked in on him naked?” MK giggles, pressing a hand to her mouth to keep from waking Cara.

 

“I did,” Tara confirms. Her grin is absolutely filthy. “I may or may not have thought ‘ _thank the Goddess_ ’ at the time.”

 

“And you married him.”

 

“And I married him. When he and I showed up at Homecoming, I saw that Obie was going stag, and he was bruised. One of my girlfriends later told me that Ronin got the swim team—which he was on—to corner Obie in the gym after school and they left a lasting message that Obie shouldn’t bother girls who don’t want to date him.”

 

“Who’s dating whom?” Ronin asks, stepping into the living room.

 

MK looks at him and starts to laugh. His eyebrows knot, and Tara looks him. “I’m telling her stories of our sordid past.”

 

Ronin reddens. “Tara--.”

 

“I’m sorry,” MK gasps out. “I’m just—gonna go.”

 

“No, stay,” Tara invites. “We can share more stories of our sordid past.”

 

“Like when you intended to prank your terrible political science professor and ended up getting the Dean of Student Affairs instead?”

 

“I forgot you knew that,” Tara says with surprise.

 

“You were simultaneously proud of yourself and completely embarrassed. How could I forget?” Ronin says dryly.

 

“What happened?”

 

“Professor Yokel—yes that was actually his name—clearly thought that girls in his class were there for his gratification,” Ronin drawls, sitting down on the opposite couch. “Tara disagreed.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Shh,” Tara hisses at Olivia.

 

“We’re going to get caught and expelled,” Olivia hisses back. “Yokel’s an ass, but he’s not worth expulsion!”

 

Tara looks away from the bucket of liquid powdered potatoes and honey with a scowl. “We’re not going to get caught, shut up!”

 

“We’re going to be so caught,” Olivia chants to herself as Tara steadies the bucket and climbs down. According to her roommate, a physics major, this should be the right angle so that when Yokel opens the door, the bucket should fall over and empty its contents over Yokel the next time he goes to his office.

 

The potatoes and honey will stick _everywhere_. The thought makes Tara feel warm and fuzzy.

 

“He’s coming,” Olivia whispers frantically.

 

Tara jumps down, putting aside the stool and getting out. She and Olivia run down the other end of the hall, crouching around the corner as they see a suit disappear in Yokel’s office in time to hear, “ _AAAIIIEEEEEE._ ”

 

Tara falls against Olivia, muffling her laughter in her hand. Olivia shakes her, eyes wide. “Tara. Tara, it didn’t get Yokel.”

 

Tara abruptly stops laughing and peeks around the corner. Dean Drummond is standing outside the office, absolutely soaked in honey and potato, and she feels horror creep over her. “We gotta go,” Olivia mutters, and together they turn around and flee down the hall.

  

* * *

 

 

“Did they ever figure it out?” MK asks, eyes wide.

 

“No, but as it turns out, Drummond was in to check Yokel’s office for evidence of misconduct. They let him go for sexual harassment the following semester. I had nothing to do with it, I swear,” Tara blinks angelically at Ronin.

 

Ronin snorts. “Right. And my aunt lives in Glastonbury.”

 

“I once hid in a darkroom to hide out from having to attend a pep rally?” MK offers. “Attending it was mandatory, and I hated it, so my art teacher let us hang out in her room to avoid the rallies. Once when she was on duty, the principal and resource officers practically kicked down the door to get us out—and then they left us alone, thinking that we’d follow.”

 

“That was their mistake,” Ronin observes, helping himself to some of the carrots on the coffee table.

 

“Oh yes,” MK chuckles, feeling a little evil. “I went into the darkroom. They never checked it, so I got away with it. Mom couldn’t figure out if she was unhappy or proud I’d ducked the system.”

 

“You know we’ll have to deal with that,” Tara sighs.

 

“If she can learn to duck me, I will happily be proud of her.”

 

“You say that now,” Tara warns him.

 

Ronin shakes his head, but his smile stays on, and their happiness is so infectious that MK smiles too.

 

“Ronin, would you order Vietnamese?” Tara asks. “I’ve been craving phở.”

 

Ronin rolls his eyes. “As my lady commands.”

 

Once he leaves, Tara leans toward her. “Have you thought about Nod?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Yes you do,” Tara contradicts, gently. She kisses MK on the cheek. “Yes, you do.”

 

\--

 

“Hey, can I go home soon?” Nod sticks his head in Ronin’s office. “It’s five past six.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Ronin says distractedly. “I’m just finishing up that report for IA. Is yours’ done?”

 

“It’ll get in your in-tray tomorrow morning,” Nod promises.

 

“Good.” Nod hesitates, before stepping in to Ronin’s office.

 

“How’s Cara doing?”

 

“If you stopped by, you could see for yourself,” Ronin says, focusing more on him. “Or are you letting your disagreement with MK keep you away?”

 

Put that way, it sounds _really_ shallow. “Can I come over on Saturday? Would that work?”

 

“Yes,” Ronin sighs. “It’s fine. Now go home.”

 

Nod leaves the office, and when he sees his desk, he sees that it’s occupied. MK is sitting on it, a _Sassafras Ice Cream Shoppe_ bag next to her. She jumps up when she sees him, tugging at her shirt. “Um, hi.”

 

He feels happiness start to bubble, but he squashes it. “Have you come to a conclusion?” he says coolly.

 

“This is for you,” she shoves the bag at him, and when he opens it, he sees freshly-baked blueberry scones and chocolate chip cookies. “Um. I think I need to tell you—about my mom, I mean, and how it went down, but that’s not exactly a conversation we should have here.” When she looks around the office, he realizes that everyone who’s there—Finn, Arya, Jansen, and Aisling—are all looking at them with interest.

 

“Let’s go to my apartment,” he suggests. “Unless you’re going to the class tonight?”

 

She shakes her head ‘no’. “I’m not. I just really need to tell you how this happened.”

 

“Then let’s go,” he says, putting a hand on her lower back and steering her out. Everyone who’s left immediately busies themselves, as if they _weren’t_ hoping for something gossip-worthy (yeah, Arya, nice try), and he leads her to his car.

 

She gets in, and it’s a silent ride to his apartment. When he looks over at her (every minute, on the minute), he sees that she’s twisting her shirt hem between her fingers, and her gaze is fixed on it. It’s going to be bad.

 

Once they’re in his apartment and seated around his table (MK relaxes slightly when he suggests it, so that’s what they go with), he watches as she pulls out her knitting. “You should understand that Westchester Strangler had only been thought of as a serial killer in my community since the second girl, Nancy Morgan, had been killed. The first one was considered a regular murder—Marcie Ribon. I knew them both—Marcie was a year above me in the dance school, and Nancy had been in two of my AP classes. We weren’t close, but we were on the ‘congenial nodding’ level of acquaintance. When the third girl, Rebecca Donnelly, a student at the public school, ended up dead, about a month and a half before senior exams, the world ran crazy. We knew he was targeting young women with red hair, particularly red-haired _athletic_ young women. Marcie had been in the dance school, and Nancy was on the tennis team. Rebecca had been the freshman forward on the junior varsity basketball team at her school. My mom was worried, but at the risk of sounding kind of selfish, I was more concerned about my AP exams and my senior exams.”

 

“That doesn’t sound selfish at all,” he tells her.

 

“The way he worked was that he snuck into the house at night, strangled the girls, did—what he did, and arranged their bodies for their families to find. Mom was terrified, and she made sure our security system was updated and our doors were always locked.” She falls silent, picking at her knitting, and he wonders if she’s stuck. “Two nights before—before, Mom got a henna kit so that we could redden her hair. Her hair was brown, and it turned it more of an auburn, not what I have. She looked really great with it, and it was something we had a lot of fun with. People always thought Mom and I looked like sisters, and it was fun to go talk to strangers and have them treat us like we were, after she dyed her hair.

 

“In hindsight, I wonder if she somehow knew, and that’s why she did it.”

 

* * *

 

 

MK knocks on Mom’s open door. “I’m heading to bed,” she says, hiding a yawn. “What about you?”

 

“Just finishing up a journal entry,” Mom says, sitting with her pillows behind her. She smiles, patting the area of bed next to her. “Want to read for a bit?”

 

“I’ve got to study for Euro,” MK says apologetically. “It’s the only exam I have to take, and if I sit with you, I’ll be tempted to talk and not study.”

 

Mom laughs, and MK’s always envied her for having a laugh like tinkling bells. “Well, come kiss me good night, then.”

 

“Okay,” MK says exaggeratedly, wandering in to brush a kiss across her mom’s forehead. Mom hugs her. “Love you Mom.”

 

“Love you too, darling.”

 

MK goes to her own room, closing the door so she can play Mozart quietly as she studies in bed (Mozart’s supposed to help). She gets to the Crimean War and starts to yawn, and by the time she gets to Florence Nightingale and the International Committee of the Red Cross, she’s done for the night and turns out her light.

 

Around 2 or so, she wakes up with a pressing need for water. She wanders out of her room, past the bathroom and her mom’s bedroom, door slightly ajar, heading downstairs to get water from the fridge. She’s almost finished the glass as she walks up the stairs when she sees a man above her mom through the ajar door, and her mom’s legs are twitching beneath him.

 

MK slams the door open. “Get away from my mother!” She tosses the water glass at the guy, and it hits him in the face, thanks to the fact that he turned to look at her when she yelled.

 

Mom’s eyes are closed, but her mouth is open, and MK’s terrified. The man looks down at Mom, and then at MK. He smirks—that’s the only available thing MK can make out in the gloom, his mouth—and says, “Oops. Sorry.”

 

MK slides along the wall, reaching for something, anything to throw at him. His nose is weeping blood as he advances toward her, and she can’t find anything on the dresser to throw at him.

 

The man’s easily over 6’0, and his body mass is more than twice hers. He’s in black from head to toe, except for his face, and his pants are unbuckled. He lunges toward her, and she jumps out of the way with a move from ballet, and he hits his face on the dresser. He groans, and she jumps onto his back, wrapping an arm around his neck and trying to scratch his eyes out with her other hand.

 

He stands up and slams her into the wall. Her head rings and her grip on him loosens, and he slides out from her grasp, slapping her across the face. She crumples to the floor, and he picks her up by her hair, dragging her across the floor. She screams in pain as he throws her down, off the carpet onto the wooden floor, before he straddles her and gets his hands around her throat. “Sorry I couldn’t make this more intimate,” he breathes. Light from the window illuminates his face and makes him look possessed, especially with the blood running down his face. “I was aiming for you in the first place.” He trails his fingers down her cheek, and she bites them.

 

He yelps, but she hangs on even as he hits her in the face. Her arms are free when he moves, and she uses them to push him off of her, letting go of his hand at the right time. He falls onto his back, and  she kicks him viciously in the groin, before slamming her heel into his diaphragm. He curls up in the fetal position, and she rises, coughing. She kicks him in the face, and more blood spurts. He moans, hands rising to clutch his face.

 

She might’ve kicked him more, but his eyes flutters shut and his body goes limp. She smashes a lamp over his head to be sure, before turning to her mom. She climbs over the wrinkled blankets, grabbing her mom and holding her in her arms. “Mom? Are you okay? He’s taken care of, are you okay? Mom? _Mom?_ ” Livid bruises stand out on the pale skin of Mom’s neck, and Mom’s head slumps against MK’s chest. She holds a hand to her mother’s nose, but she doesn’t feel any moist air hit her skin. Cringing, she puts two fingers to the carotid artery, but there’s no pulse. “Mom, c’mon,” she begs, rocking back and forth. “Mom, wake up, come back, _please_. Mom—Please come back, Mommy. _Please_.”

 

“Freeze, FBI!” Someone barks, standing in the doorway. The woman in an FBI vest looks over the scene, eyes finally landing on MK. “Sweetheart?”

 

“We’re going to need an ambulance,” MK weeps, looking down at her mother. “My mom needs help.”

 

“We’ve got EMTs here,” the FBI agent says, advancing on her, arms out. “Can you let go of her for me, sweetheart?”

 

“Help her,” MK begs. “I don’t know CPR—I don’t know how to help--.”

 

“It’s okay,” the FBI agent says as two EMTs enter with the stretcher. “They’ll take good care of her.”

 

MK lets the EMTs take her mom, and then a third comes over to her. “I’m fine,” she says, flinching back from the penlight.

 

“At least let me clean you up,” the EMT says gently.

 

The FBI agent is checking the man, and she says, “Rose, we’re going to need another stretcher.”

 

“A body bag?”

 

“No,” the FBI agent says grimly. “He’s still alive.”

 

MK doesn’t understand that last part as Rose radios for another stretcher, turning back to MK. “Can you tell me your name?”

 

“MK—Mary Katherine Kennedy. Anna Kennedy’s my mom. I’m 17 years old. I’m a senior at Westchester Academy. Barack Obama is the current president.”

 

“Let’s get you downstairs,” the EMT suggests, helping MK up and over to the door, around the prone figure of the man who attacked her mother, down the stairs to the stairs of the stoop, where MK sits down and lets the EMT wipe off her face and swipe rubbing alcohol swabs across the open cuts under her eyes and her chin. Her head hurts, but there’s no blood and it’s not pounding like a concussion, so the EMT recommends she go to the hospital to get looked over, but she’ll probably be fine.

 

The FBI agent wraps a blanket around her and sits down next to her as MK watches them wheel the man into a second ambulance. The first one’s already taken off screaming into the night. “MK, is there anyone we can call?”

 

MK hunches over. “No. It was just me and my mom.”

 

The neighbor woman, the one who’s always been sickly sweet to MK, steps forward. “There’s a father in Connecticut. Anna gave me his number once when she asked me to watch MK for the weekend while she attended a work conference. His name’s Bomba Radcliffe.”

 

“I’m going to need that number,” the FBI agent says tiredly. “Mary Katherine, you should know that--,” her mouth twists, “your mother was declared dead as of 2:47 AM. We weren’t able to save her. Mrs. Paulsen here called the police when she heard you scream. We’re going to need to get your statement. I know it’s going to be hard, but I need you to tell me what happened.”

 

“Why did he do it?” MK asks, looking at the agent. “Why did he kill her?”

 

The agent’s eyes soften and she brushes MK’s hair back from her face. “His mind works differently than ours. He feels the need to kill, and he focused on a specific group.”

 

“Young, redheaded women,” MK surmises.

 

“Yes.”

 

“What’s going to happen now?”

 

“Well, he’ll be charged. There’s plenty of evidence linking him between the murders, and with testimony, he’ll get convicted and put away in prison where he’ll never see the light of day again.”

 

“It won’t bring back my mother,” MK murmurs, feeling tears start to leak from her eyes.

 

“No,” the agent agrees sadly. “I’ll take you to the hospital, Mary Katherine.”

 

“What’s your name?” MK asks, standing up and leaning heavily on her.

 

The agent squeezes her shoulders lightly. “I’m Agent Clarice Starling.”

 

* * *

 

 

At some point during the narrative, MK starts to cry. She doesn’t sob or hiccup, but the tears stream from her eyes. He gets up to get a tissue box, and she doesn’t pause in her recitation. Once she’s done, he puts a tissue in her hand and she stares at it, before he daubs at her cheek with another. She gets it, finally wiping her eyes.

 

“The Westchester Strangler has been charged, his trial starts in two weeks, and my mother is still dead,” she says flatly. “I’ve talked to Dr. Moore, and Tara, and Ronin, and between the three of them, we’ve come to the conclusion that I’m terrified of losing other people. My mom was—she was—she was my everything, Nod. My whole world revolved around her. When she was murdered, it was like the floor of my reality abruptly dropped out. I do like you—a lot. But I almost lost you on Friday, and I don’t think I could handle that if that happened.”

 

“I don’t know if you know this, but my dad was killed by Mandrake in the line of duty. We didn’t have conclusive proof, but Ronin charged him anyway, and Mandrake’s lawyer got him off. I still remember Ronin coming home and telling Mom—Mom slapped him and told him to get out.” He grabs MK’s hands, interlacing their fingers together. Now that he knows to look for it, he can see the pale scars under her eyes and down her chin. They’re so slight that unless you look for them, you don’t see them. “Mom didn’t want me to join the Academy. ‘I don’t want to lose you like I lost your father,’ is what she told me. But I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.” He kisses the top of her palms. “I lo-like you, Mary Katherine Kennedy, and I want you in my life. There’s always risk in life, but this is one I’m willing to take.”

 

“I think—I _know_ ,” she interrupts herself, “that I’m afraid. But—Mom wouldn’t want me to live afraid. And she’d like you.” MK takes a deep breath. “I’m willing to take this risk. It’ll take me a while to be...normal, though.”

 

He badly wants to kiss her, but he doesn’t know how she’d react to that. “It’s all right. I have my nightmares and my triggers, too.”

 

She looks at him gratefully. “Thank you.”

 

Now he _does_ kiss her, leaning across the table for a chaste brushing of lips. “Nothing to thank me for, sweetheart. Want to get dinner and surprise Tara with it?”

 

Her lips spread slightly in a smile. “I’d be okay with that.”

 

\--

 

On Saturday afternoon, Ronin watches as Tara and MK delight over the baby together (he suddenly gets a flash of Tara and MK doing the same thing years later, only with MK’s child, and he shivers unconsciously), smiling slightly.

 

Nod bumps him with his shoulder before leaning on the doorframe, laughing slightly. “Fatherhood’s softened you.”

 

“Say that again and you’re on desk duty for a week,” Ronin replies, only half joking. “And my baby is beautiful, so you’re doubly wrong.”

 

“She is beautiful,” Nod concedes, before nudging him again. “I owe you an apology, by the way.”

 

“For what?” Ronin asks absently.

 

“MK told me what happened—to her mom, I mean. She told me on Wednesday.”

 

Ronin zeroes in on Nod. “She told you everything?”

 

Nod rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. She did, complete with guilt over the fact that she thinks it should be her in the ground. You knew?”

 

“I read the case files,” Ronin murmurs, “and she confirmed. Agent Starling’s notes were thorough.”

 

“That’s a lot for one person,” Nod observes. “And I’m sorry—I doubted you on that.”

 

“Does this mean--,” Ronin cuts himself off. MK’s been smiling a lot more lately, as though some great weight has been lifted from her. He doesn’t doubt that part of it is linked to the birth of his child—babies make people smile—but her confession to Nod also likely has something to do with it. Nod has been good for her, and she’s been good for Nod.

 

Though he wants to keep the words back, he owes Nod an apology. “I’m sorry too,” he grits out, “You’ve helped her. A great deal.”

 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Nod teases.

 

Ronin nudges him. “You heard me. And she’s been good for you.”

 

“Yeah, well, _that_ I know. She got me to read John Donne!”

 

“When’s the wedding?” Ronin says dryly, and when Nod looks considering, he tacks on, “That was a joke.”

 

“I know,” Nod grumbles.

 

“She’s too young,” Ronin warns him.

 

“I know,” Nod repeats. Ronin still doesn’t like the look in his eyes, but Nod steps into the living room and says, “Can you share?”

 

MK turns to look up at him, Cara in her arms, and Ronin shivers again. Tara looks at him, her lips curling in a satisfied smile. He doesn’t like that smile.

 

“Well, if you come over here we can share,” MK suggests, turning back down to Cara. Tara hauls herself up and over to Ronin as Nod slides in, leaning back against the couch, making grabby hands for the baby.

 

“You look like you bit into a lemon,” Tara teases, leaning against him. Her waistline is slowly returning to pre-baby status, and she wants it to be a faster process. “What did Nod say?”

 

“Nothing much,” Ronin grumps, wrapping an arm around her waist. She leans into him. “Just that MK’s far too young for certain things he’s thinking over.”

 

“Oh, her dancing to a certain march could be _delightful_.”

 

“It could be. But not now.”

 

Tara laughs, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Oh, my darling, you’re sweet and I love you.”

 

“Do you know something I don’t?”

 

She hums. “Frequently. Anything in particular you’re wanting to know?”

 

“Troublemaker,” he says fondly.

 

“Always,” she promises.

 

“If our daughter turns out to be half the troublemaker you are, I’m blaming you.”

 

“Oh, you got into your fair share of trouble too,” she reminds him. “I seem to recall a prank played on your archery mentor while you were in primary school...”

 

“I was much younger then,” he says, straight-faced.

 

“Oh yes, so much younger,” Tara shakes her head.

 

“At least I never doused the Dean of Student Affairs in honey and potato. How long did it take for him to get clean?”

 

“Three days, and that’s entirely irrelevant.”

 

MK’s giggle distracts them. When they look at Nod and MK, Cara curled into MK’s shoulder, fast asleep, Nod turns to MK. “Think we’ll sound like them in ten years?”

 

“Maybe,” MK says, her cheeks pink with good humor.

 

“You’ll have your own,” Tara tells them, looping her arm through Ronin’s and dragging him to the couch. He goes willingly as Tara takes Cara from MK and puts her in the baby bassinet. “Anyone up for a rousing game of Parcheesi?”

 

\--

 

“So after Mandrake Zerfall grabbed you, you moved your leg over so that Officer Chercheur might have a clear shot?”

 

“Yes,” she says quietly. The prosecutor, Eleanor Ramsay, watches her carefully as Mandrake’s defense, Ralph Harcourt, clears his throat and continues to question her.

 

Ronin’s sitting next to her, and they’ve been undergoing the deposition for over an hour. Harcourt sued on behalf of Mandrake’s estate, since the police can seize everything when he’s guilty of wrongdoing. “Why trust that Officer Chercheur wouldn’t hit you?”

 

“No—Officer Chercheur is an amazing shot, and I knew that the backlash from being shot would cause Mr. Zerfall to let go of me.”

 

“And he was shot in the right leg?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“He then let go of you, and what did you do?”

 

“I kicked the gun out of his hand, and I ran over to Officer Chercheur.”

 

“Why not pick up the gun?”

 

“Guns scare me,” she says awkwardly. “I didn’t want to handle it.”

 

“And then Chief Vigile arrested him?”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“Did he read Mr. Zerfall his complete Miranda rights?”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“According to Chief Vigile and Officer Chercheur’s testimony, it was you who brought up the possibility of Mr. Zerfall attacking Mayor Sylva while in labor. What made you think of it?”

 

“It made sense,” she tells Harcourt. “Like, Mr. Zerfall has a history of trying to kill Chief Vigile and Mayor Sylva, or so I’ve been told.”

 

“Allegedly,” Harcourt reminds her.

 

She shrugs. “Allegedly.  Anyway, it was too golden an opportunity for Mr. Zerfall to miss.”

 

The rest of the deposition goes like that, and by the time MK and Ronin are released, MK’s yawning. “Ugh, Harcourt’s an ass,” she mutters to him.

 

“He was Mandrake’s lawyer. He’s trying prove that we messed up, so that Mandrake’s estate remains intact.”

 

“Why?”

 

“He’ll be in charge of selling it. He’ll get most of the proceeds.”

 

“Ohhhh.”

 

“Indeed.” Ronin takes off his jacket in the rare warm humidity, swinging it over his shoulder as they head back to the Mayor’s mansion. “You handled that well.”

 

“It’s not my first time dodging lawyers,” she says dryly. “I’m not looking forward to testifying—the Strangler got the best defense lawyer in Westchester to represent him.”

 

“Being paid for by his ‘fans.’”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I am appalled.”

 

“Same,” she sighs. “So, does this mean the investigation is over?”

 

“The hospital and the dance school have video corroborating the entire thing,” Ronin tells her, stopping at a crosswalk. “All of our testimony lines up, and the autopsy will likely concur. To the extent of our training, we did everything right.”

 

“I guess this means I’ve lost my practice space,” she says glumly. “And what about the dance camp? And preparing for _Swan Lake?_ We were supposed to start practice this upcoming week.”

 

“We’ll have to see. Worst comes to worst, you can use the community center,” Ronin offers.

 

Yeah, but it’s not a dance studio. She doesn’t tell him that, though.

 

As they enter the house, they can hear Tara talking with someone. He presumes it’s Olivia Fleur, but as he puts away his jacket in the front closet, he sees the red hair that _must_ mean Bomba Radcliffe. He’s back from his forest trip, then.

 

“Hello?” MK calls, heading into the living room. He keeps a step or two behind as Radcliffe barrels toward his daughter, wrapping his arms around her. MK freezes.

 

“Ohmygodyou’reokayIdidn’tevenknowIwassoworried--.”

 

“Dad, breathe,” MK instructs, pushing away slightly. “I’m fine, yes. When did you get back?”

 

“About an hour ago,” Radcliffe says, letting go of her. “I headed home, but when you weren’t there, I headed here. Mayor Sylva’s been catching me up on everything.”

 

Ronin looks past the father and daughter and catches Tara’s eye. She jerks her head toward the bedroom—Cara’s in there instead of the baby bassinet, then. Good.

 

“Nod’s worse off than I am,” MK tells her father. “I got off lightly.”

 

“Still...”

 

“Dad, I swear I’m fine.” And she is—she’s been the happiest he’s ever seen her, Ronin observes. That likely has more to do with Nod than Mandrake, but it’s still something.

 

“Tell me everything,” Radcliffe orders.

 

MK, with rolled eyes, complies.

 

\--

 

About a week after MK gives her testimony, Internal Affairs declares the matter closed and that he and Ronin acted with all necessary action or whatever. Essentially, they’ve been cleared of potential wrongdoing.

 

He’s leaning over the counter, bothering MK—she’s trying to read _Americanah_ but he’s interrupting—when the little bell at the door rings.

 

“Nod, stop it—hello, welcome to the Rings of Knowledge--.”

 

“Good evening,” Ralph Harcourt says, removing his hat. MK stands up, closing her book and Nod slides off the counter, looking over the lawyer with suspicion. The older man straightens his black overcoat, his gloves visible from where they’re hanging out of a pocket. His dress shoes are spotless, matching the black pants—Harcourt’s always dressed solemnly, with his only color being his spotless white shirt. His brown eyes are keenly scrutinizing the two of them, and Nod forces away the shudder that always accompanies the arrival of Mandrake’s lawyer.

 

“What do you want, Harcourt?” he demands.

 

“Nothing to do with you, Officer Chercheur,” Harcourt says coldly. “It has everything to do with Ms. Kennedy.”

 

“What do you want, then?” MK says, folding her arms over her chest.

 

Harcourt pulls out a heavy envelope. “Before his untimely end, Mr. Zerfall came to see me about his dance school. It took some time, but it’s finally done—the dance school is now in your name.”

 

“...excuse me?”

 

“Mr. Zerfall transferred his title of the dance school to you,” Harcourt’s eyes glint. “I believe he said that your passion for dance inspired him. He wasn’t doing anything with the property except as using it as a temporary office, and his beloved wife loved dance so much he didn’t want to sell it until the right person came along. When he saw you dance, he knew you were the right person, so out of respect for your late mother he transferred it to you.”

 

“Remarkably, that still doesn’t explain anything,” MK says.

 

Harcourt slides her the envelope. “In there is the current appraiser’s estimate, the insurance information, and the deed to the dance school, now in your name. It is yours.”

 

“And he gave this to me because he liked how I danced and he respected my mother,” MK says, reaching for the envelope. “Why?”

 

“Does he need another reason?” Harcourt asks dryly. “Dagda had never shown his father’s cultural inclinations, and Mr. Zerfall wanted the school in the hands of someone who would love it like he would.”

 

Personally, he thinks it’s creepy as hell. From MK’s face, she feels the same. “So un-transfer the school and sell it,” she says tartly.

 

“Of course—if you have $3K to pay the county in fees,” Harcourt says with a shadow of a smirk. He places his hat back on. “Of course, if you require a lawyer to represent you if you wish to sell, my business card is in that envelope. Have a good day, Ms. Kennedy.”

 

After he leaves, Nod turns back to MK, who’s opening the envelope gingerly, like she’s expecting it blow up in her face. “Why would he even--?”

 

“Probably to taunt you,” Nod says frankly. “I’d sell it.”

 

“Yeah...maybe...” he doesn’t like the way she’s biting her lip.

 

“What? What is it?”

 

“I need a practice space,” she says, looking away, blushing a little. “And— _Swan Lake’s_ coming up, and practicing in a dance studio would—I could sell it after.”

 

She seems like she’s talking herself into it. He grabs her hand. “MK? Why would you keep it? It’s a terrible gift, from a terrible person.”

 

“I—I need to think about this,” MK says softly. “Thing is—it’s not inherently good or bad, it’s how you use it. He gave it to me—maybe out of cruelty, maybe because his desire to put it in the right hands was genuine. But what I do with it—that’s up to me.” She turns away from him, trailing her fingertips across the countertop. “And—it gives me a reason to come back.”

 

His heart leaps into his throat. He coughs. “MK, I--.”

 

“I could teach,” she goes on. “I’ve always loved that part—by the time I got to the level I did, part of my requirements were to help teach the young ones. I loved being able to teach them how to jump and twirl, and then seeing their smiles when they could do it.” She looks at him, and her green eyes are watery. “I’m not making any promises—things could definitely change—but that’s something I’ve wanted.”

 

He leans over the countertop, lifting her chin up. “Just—think about it,” he tells her. “Okay?” He kisses her, before pulling away. “Just think about it.”

 

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Of course I will,” she mutters, patting his cheek before seating herself on the stool, and pulling open her book. “If I’ve proved anything, it’s that I don’t make decisions in haste.”

 

He snorts. “That’s one way of putting it. By the way, I’ve been meaning to give this to you,” he slides a key across, and she picks up, her eyebrows quizzical.

 

“And this is...?”

 

“A key to my apartment. Just in case you don’t want to stay with your dad after Tara doesn’t need you, or even if you just a space to be a breather, you can get in whenever.”

 

“Are you inviting me to move in with you?”

 

“Not exactly,” he says quickly. “I mean—only if you want to, after your responsibilities are tended to. But if you ever need a quiet place or something...”

 

“This is really a desperate plea for me to sleep with you, isn’t it?” MK deadpans, tucking the key into her pocket.

 

“I wasn’t sure that desperate is the word for it,” he smirks, “since you can barely keep your hands off me.”

 

He gets another eyebrow raise for that. “Oh? Who’s doing all the bending over counters?” MK asks smoothly, closing her book and resting her chin on her hands.

 

“I’ll assume the position for you any time,” he offers. He feels his smile curl. “Is that how you want me?”

 

She blushes, but her eyes aren’t watering any more, and they positively sparkle when she murmurs, “I think I’d prefer you on your knees, actually.”

 

He opens his mouth to say something, but the little bell dings again, and he stands upright. Aisling stands at the door. “You’re late,” she says coolly.

 

He has issues standing up straight, and he clears his throat. “Um, I could’ve sworn I had at least fifteen minutes,” he says.

 

MK stands up, and at her angle, she can see his...problem. She licks her lips ( _not_ helping, MK), and turns to Aisling. “Hey, have you seen what we have new in fiction?”

 

“No and I don’t care to--.”

 

“Oh, come on, ‘Ling. I’m sure you’ll love it. There’s this series, _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , and okay Martin, the author, can be a bit of a douche but he gets his women characters mostly right, and I really think you’ll like them.”

 

It’s a good thing Aisling likes her, Nod thinks, cringing as he tries to stand. She would’ve skewered anyone else who called her ‘Ling.

 

She actually manages to talk Aisling into buying the first book, and by the time the book’s wrapped up and ready to go, he’s ready too. Aisling drags him along, and by the time they get back to the police station, Finn’s leaning against his ( _his_ ) desk. “Oh good, you found him. Thanks, Aisling.”

 

Aisling stalks off.

 

“Was that necessary?” Nod asks, rubbing his arm.

 

“I hadn’t gotten my daily dose of trolling Aisling,” Finn says lazily. “It’s good for her. C’mon, kid, we’re checking up on Bufo.”

 

“One day she’s going to hit you,” Nod warns. _Or kiss you_ , but he doubts it.

 

Finn grins slowly. “I’ve been aiming for that for a while. Let’s go. I want to see what Bufo is up to.”

 

“Why?” Nod wants to know as he follows Finn out, climbing into the squad car.

 

“’Cause with Mandrake gone, there’s a power vacuum, and Bufo’s the best one to step in and take over. The worst Boggans are in jail, awaiting arraignment—and they’ll probably be convicted now that Mandrake’s money won’t be bailing them out—so the others are more likely to follow a capable leader.”

 

“Are you arresting Bufo, then?”

 

“No, I mean, for starters, he’s not a drug lord.”

 

“Brownie points,” Nod mutters.

 

Finn chuckles. “Other thing is—there’s always going to be some crime, petty though it may be. It’s easier if we know where it’s coming from. Let’s go bother Bufo.”

 

Bufo’s playing in the front yard with his daughter Rosalia when they pull up. The little girl’s hair is in two shiny black pigtails, and she’s in a pink sundress, giggling as she runs away from her dad. Bufo stops, standing up as Finn parks and the two of them get out. “Good afternoon officers,” he drawls, and Rosalia runs inside as Bufo sticks his hands in his pockets. “Can I help you?”

 

“Just wondering what the state of the criminal underworld was,” Finn says, leaning against the fence. “Given that you stand to benefit the most from Mandrake’s death.”

 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“I’m sure,” Finn agrees.

 

“Is there a point to this?”

 

“Just thought we’d stop by, say hi,” Finn says.

 

“Good bye,” Bufo says pointedly.

 

Finn laughs, but they leave.

 

\--

 

“I see you missed our session on Thursday,” Dr. Moore says.

 

“Nod and I ended up staying up late playing with Cara, and then we got a late dessert after that,” MK says, lowering herself onto the couch. “I slept late, I’m sorry.”

 

“So you two kissed and made up?”

 

MK blushes. “Yeah. We’re good now.”

 

“Thank you for rescheduling from yesterday to today,” Dr. Moore says, leaning back in her chair. Her red hair’s pinned back today, and MK is vaguely envious. “I had some family drama come up.”

 

“I told Nod about everything,” MK says softly. “He’s the first one I’ve—told. He reacted better than I thought he would.”

 

“How did you think he would respond?”

 

“I thought he would reject me,” she confesses, pressing a hand to her eyes. “I’m the reason my mother’s dead.”

 

“Why do you say that?”

 

“Because the Strangler went after young, athletic redheaded women, and he was aiming for me and got my mom instead...”

 

“Do you hear how strange that sounds?” Dr. Moore leans forward. “You’ve been holding onto all this guilt, when the fault lies completely with him. Why hang onto that?”

 

“Because it’s easier to blame myself than it is to accept that my mother’s gone,” MK says, before clapping a hand to her mouth.

 

Dr. Moore smiles slightly. “No one around here blames you for your mother’s death. Only you. Do you think your mother would have wanted this any other way, if she ever had the choice?” Tears start to pool in MK’s eyes as Dr. Moore leans forward and grabs her hands, squeezing slightly. “No parent should have to bury a child, isn’t that what she would’ve said? Think about the parents of your deceased peers—do you think for a second that if they could swap with their children that they wouldn’t?”

 

MK closes her eyes, but the tears leak out anyway. “I just miss her,” she rasps out.

 

“I understand that,” Dr. Moore says, offering her a tissue. She takes it, daubing at her eyes. “You’re not going to be better for a long time, but I think a good part of that was the grief, and now that you’ve acknowledged it, you’ll be able to start moving on.”

 

“So...what’s next?”

 

“I want you to keep a dream journal for a week or so,” Dr. Moore suggests. “Write down everything you remember, even the nightmares. Your subconscious has been trying to tell you things for a long time. Now we’re going to start listening.”

 

\--

 

“Hey, are you guys busy?” MK asks awkwardly.

 

Ronin, in the middle of changing Cara’s diaper, looks at her, and then at Tara, who’s blinking awake. “No,” Tara stretches out an arm and pats the couch next to her. “What’s up?”

 

“Before Mandrake died, he put the dance school in my name,” MK says quickly, sitting down with the gold envelope between her fingers. “Nod thinks I should sell it.”

 

“But?” Tara asks gently, reaching for the baby after Ronin finishes changing her diaper. Cara burbles once she’s in Tara’s arms (Ronin rolls his eyes), falling asleep almost immediately.

 

“I mean, it’s not like it wouldn’t get used,” MK says. “And—and--.”

 

“It would be easier for us to discuss if you just said what was on your mind,” Ronin says pointedly.

 

Tara shoots him a look, but he ignores it. It seems to be the right thing to say to MK, though, because she takes a deep breath. “I’d use the dance school, and I’d make it available for classes. And—I’ve been thinking about coming back, after I get my degree, I mean, and there isn’t a constant dance teacher--.”

 

“So you’re wondering if you should keep it, even if it comes from Mandrake,” Tara summarizes, looking at Ronin for confirmation.

 

It’s an interesting question—his kneejerk reaction would be to sell it; damnit, burn the place down. But after he puts aside the kneejerk reaction, it makes sense, to keep it. If anyone could bring something good to the community after the wreckage of Mandrake, it would be Mary Katherine.

 

“There is no good or evil except for what you choose,” Tara says softly. “Mandrake chose evil, and the outcomes that followed were based upon those choices. Something like the dance school occupies a neutral space—it’s what you do with it that makes it good or evil. That’s what you’re really wondering, isn’t it? Whether it’s morally permissible? The decision is ultimately up to you, and you should choose what feels right to you, and for you. I will not think less of you for either decision made.”

 

“However, I would just remind you the practical aspects,” Ronin adds. “It costs to maintain. If you can manage that and pay for college, then it is no issue. If it would drain your resources for college to maintain it, college should come first.”

 

“Thank you,” MK says softly. “I—haven’t made my decision yet, but--.”

 

“You feel better about it,” Tara nods. “Have you thought about talking to your father about this?”

 

“I can’t talk to Dad about this,” MK says, making a face. “He wouldn’t understand.”

 

“Why not?” Tara asks mildly, standing up to put Cara in the baby bassinet. “He still has a vested interest in your future.”

 

“He wants me in academia,” she complains, toeing off her sensible shoes to pull them underneath her. “Or something that he can talk to me about. He doesn’t understand why I’ve been in dance, why I stick with it even when my feet bleed and my muscles hurt.”

 

“What would you tell him?”

 

“That—” MK’s face relaxes as she looks beyond this room and out the window across from her, “there’s power, in the movements. That when I can stretch my body into a perfect line, for a moment, I am in everything, that I _am_ everything. That when I have a routine perfectly done, everything I’ve ever felt or will ever feel just explodes from me in movement, and that I have perfect control when I’m giving myself over to something other than myself. It’s—an act of creation.”

 

“Why can’t you tell him that?”

 

“He can’t look past the shoes I’ve bled into and the sprained ankles and that if I have a major injury, I’ve locked myself away from that for forever after. No, Dad and I can’t talk, not about this. He’s never cared about my life or what I’ve been doing before Mom died, and it’s like this sudden burst of fatherly affection came at the cost of my mom.” MK hunches her shoulders. “That—came out more bitter than I meant.”

 

It has the ring of familiar words, though, and Ronin looks at Tara. They both had strong relationships with their parents, and it’s always been difficult to hear when someone—one of their peers or their protégés—had a harder relationship with their parents.

 

“And I feel like I’m not under any obligation to make it easier on Dad, when he’s never bothered before Mom died,” she goes on, oblivious to the silent negotiations between them. “Nod told me that I need to talk about Mom with him, because he lost her too, but he lost her a long time before I did, and he hasn’t changed the behaviors that drove her away.” Ronin looks at Tara again, who seems upset, staring behind MK. When Ronin follows her gaze, he finds Radcliffe standing in the doorway, pale and transfixed. How long has he been there? MK doesn’t know, and that compounds his sense of discomfort as she continues, “And—I don’t know how to meet him at his level. I was going to be an _English major_ , for crying out loud. I’m not good at math, I don’t know the chemical equation for _sugar_ , and I guess I feel like—he’s my dad. It’s not my place to find common ground. It’s his.”

 

Radcliffe turns on his heel and walks out of the room, and MK sighs. “I wish I could wave a magic wand and make it better,” she confesses as Ronin distantly hears the sound of the front door creaking open and shut. “But there’s no easy solution.”

 

“No, there certainly is not,” Tara murmurs.

 

“Thanks for listening,” MK says honestly, getting up and grabbing her shoes. “I think I’m going to go knit for a while, think things over. Do you need me to take Cara?”

 

“No, she’s asleep, let’s leave her that way,” Tara shudders delicately. “The delights of the nightly feeding.”

 

MK smiles slightly before heading up the stairs. Once Ronin hears the door shut, he hisses, “How long was he there?”

 

“Long enough,” Tara says, standing up carefully and folding over the blankets. “I’d hoped to invite him to dinner to create some neutral ground.”

 

“Did you know that was going to happen? No, better question, did you manipulate for that to happen?”

 

“I certainly did not,” Tara says sharply. He’s wounded her, and he ducks his head in contrition. “From the moment she walked through that door, she was in absolutely control of what she was saying and feeling. The fact that he happened to be here to overhear is not something I planned.”

 

“Was it something you wanted?”

 

She sighs. “In a way. Bomba lives in a bubble, you know this. He won’t change unless he’s forced to.”

 

“He can only change if he chooses to,” Ronin retorts in a whisper.

 

“She deserves a better father!” Tara throws down the throw onto the back of the couch. “He can be that for her, but she won’t tell him this because she’s afraid of hurting him, and that means he’ll never pick up these cues otherwise!”

 

“Tara,” Ronin says quietly, approaching his wife. She’s upset, and he wonders if the hormones still circulating her body encourage how upset she is. “You may also have given him an excuse to stop trying at all.”

 

“In that case, he’s not the man I know he can be,” Tara snaps, but it’s a feeble response, and she leans against him as he wraps an arm around her.

 

“Have you ever truly seen him put anything or anyone before himself and his ambition?” Ronin asks softly. “Ever? I haven’t. I’ve never seen him miss his wife and daughter. The fact that he _had_ a wife and daughter was something I’d almost forgotten. I know you can read people far better than I do, but that has to be buried deeply.”

 

“I just wanted an opportunity to clear the air,” she whispers. “I should tell Mary Katherine this, that this happened. I messed up, and what happens can be laid squarely at my feet.”

 

He kisses her forehead. “Wait until after dinner,” he advises. “If she goes tearing off after him, give him some time to cool off first.”

 

“You think he’s mad?”

 

“I think he’s hurt. Hurt people don’t always make the best decisions.”

 

“We may have Mary Katherine as a more permanent resident after all,” she mutters, heading toward the kitchen.

 

“You may have to fight Nod for that,” he says dryly, following her.

 

\--

 

MK steps carefully onto the porch of her house and through the door. She doesn’t see her bags waiting for her pointedly, but she doesn’t know if Dad would do that.

 

Anxiety rises up to choke her. Tara told her Tuesday night—it’s now Thursday morning after her appointment with Dr. Moore, who recommended that she talk to Dad.

 

On top of everything else, the trial began today. She’s determinedly steering clear of all unnecessary info—the prosecutor’s keeping her informed.

 

He’s in his office, examining something. She knocks on the door, one-two, and feels her heart hammering in her ears. “Dad?”

 

“Mary Katherine,” he says distractedly, not bothering to turn around. “Are you moving back home?”

 

“Tara and Ronin still need me,” she says, pushing away the instinctive shudder at the thought. “But I thought we could talk.”

 

“What’s there to talk about?”

 

Oh god, he really is going to make this hard. She drags a chair over, sitting beside him. He’s dissecting a bat, and she represses the nausea at the visual of the internal organs. “I—I’m sorry you had to hear all of that.”

 

“You never would have told me that yourself,” Dad’s words are bitten off and he’s _still not looking at her_. “Because I wouldn’t listen.”

 

“Because we don’t know how to talk,” she says quietly.

 

“And a part of that is my fault.” Sad thing is, she doesn’t know if Dad’s confessing to it or throwing it back in her face.

 

“Dad, I--.”

 

“Your mother left because she didn’t want to raise you here,” Dad says abruptly. “She didn’t care for Mandrake, and she felt like he was watching you too closely. Magdalena’s school was good, but it wasn’t enough to justify her staying. I wouldn’t go, because I had a steady job, and I was close enough to the forest to do my own research. She left anyway.”

 

That may have been _a_ reason but not _the_ reason. Dad’s still in denial-land, years after this has happened, and there’s no way she’s breaking through that wall of his.

 

He’s not going to change, not even after hearing what she’s said.

 

This isn’t a healthy relationship for her, and she makes her decision right there that once she turns eighteen, she’s gone. Either she’ll be living with Nod or on her own (she’d _really_ like to stay with Tara and Ronin but she doesn’t know if they want her that long), but she doesn’t have an obligation to stay with someone who refuses to compromise with her.

 

Mom taught her that, when she was having issues with Karl.

 

She has the right to look after her well-being. She’s tried—she’s made her effort—but she has the right to leave.

 

She is, and so she turns on her heel and goes.

 

\--

 

Nod yawns as he lets himself into his apartment. A meeting with Ronin and Aisling went long tonight, so he’d texted MK that he wouldn’t be able to walk her home (as he had been). Her reply had been lukewarm, so he presumed that she’d been busy.

 

Scrambled eggs, he thinks, locking the door behind him. Something that takes almost no effort to chew. He can take a shower in the morning—he just wants to eat and go to bed.

 

There’s a murmur coming from his living room, and he leaves his keys on the table in the hall, taking a few steps into his living room to see MK curled up on his couch, his small television showing a couple of people at a funeral. When she sees him, she pauses—must be a DVD—lifting her head from the pillow. “Hi,” she yawns.

 

She’s in his shirt, underneath one of his blankets. His brain abruptly shorts out.

 

“H-hi,” he stutters, leaning against the wall. He’s grateful the room is dark. “Why are you here?”

 

“The trial began today,” she mutters, putting her head back on her pillow. “And I talked to Dad about what I said—he’s deep in Denial-Land. Tara and Ronin didn’t need me tonight, so you said I had an open...invitation, is this not okay?”

 

“It’s totally fine,” he assures her, adjusting his shirt. “Let me go eat something and then I’ll come sit with you.”

 

“Okay,” she says, pressing play.

 

The eggs don’t take long, and he eats them faster than he’s eaten them in his life, heading back into his living room to join her. Two women are taking food to a rather large collection of dogs, and MK lifts her pillow as he sits down, putting her pillow back down on his lap and resting her head on it. Her hair’s loose, and he starts to carefully run his right hand through it. “What are we watching?”

 

“ _The Jane Austen Book Club_ ,” she mumbles, “I watch it whenever I’m upset.”

 

“Your dad didn’t react at all well?”

 

“He thinks Mandrake had more to do with Mom leaving than him.”

 

Nod winces. He never met Anna Kennedy, but even he knows that’s dead wrong. “So what now?”

 

“I’m moving out once I turn eighteen on September 1st,” she sighs, curling into his hand and he lets it rest on the curve of her skull, massaging her scalp with his fingertips. “Don’t know where yet.”

 

“You can always come here,” he offers.

 

He can sense she’s smiling. “I know. Thanks for the offer.”

 

“All right, so who’s this guy?” Nod says, leaning back a little and letting his fingers run through her hair again. It’s so soft, and he just wants to rub his face against it and purr.

 

“Grigg,” MK mumbles. “He falls in love with Jocelyn.”

 

“Ah.”

 

They watch in silence before Nod realizes that part of that silence is MK fast asleep, since she purrs when she sleeps. He lets himself feel flattered—he can’t remember the last time (before MK) that someone trusted him enough to fall asleep on him. Mutual sleep after a satisfying roll in the sheets? Yes. But falling asleep like this, leaving themselves vulnerable to him?

 

Yeah, he can’t remember that at all.

 

He lets his hand rest on the curve of her neck, and he feels her pulse against the pads of his fingers. She sighs, leaning into his touch. His heartbeat is really loud, or so it seems, but he turns to the film, trying to focus on it.

 

It actually engages, and by the time he finds that Grigg and Jocelyn have officially had sex, he’s happy for them. He’s tired again, and it’s well past eleven, so he picks up MK (carefully), and takes her into the bedroom. Since he practically never makes his bed, he just lays her down, pulling the covers over her before heading into the bathroom to change into his pajamas and brush his teeth. He needs to use the toilet, and once he’s finished up, he turns out the bathroom light and crawls into bed beside MK. Her eyes are slits, and she mumbles, “We in bed?”

 

He runs his knuckles down her cheek, and she smiles slightly. “Yeah. Go back to sleep.”

 

“Okay,” she sighs, closing her eyes.

 

It takes him less to fall asleep than he would’ve thought, all things considering.

 

He wakes up when his alarm goes off at 7, and she mumbles, “Turn the damn thing off.”

 

“I have work and you have practice,” he tells her, but he doesn’t want to move. One of her arms is over his body, and her face is pressed between his shoulder blades.

 

She groans, and it vibrates pleasantly against him. His, ah, morning condition asserts itself, but she doesn’t realize it, and after a moment, he realizes she’s gone back to sleep.

 

He thinks longingly of doing the same, but he really does have to be in by nine. And he needs a shower.

 

“I need to go,” he tells her, and she groans, rolling over and burying herself in the blankets. If she wasn’t such a cuddlebug, she’d be a blanket hog, and he laughs to himself as he gets out of bed, grabbing his (clean) uniform and fresh underwear, ducking into the shower. It takes longer than his usual ten minutes, because he valiantly resists the urge to, ah, ‘enjoy himself,’ (as Mom had so delicately put it years ago when she walked in on him with an edition of Dad’s old Playboy), instead thinking of things like maggots to calm himself down.

 

All of that goes out the window when he steps out of the bathroom in a swirl of water vapor. He doesn’t see MK lying across the bed, her shirt stretching tight or her bare leg poking out of the blankets.

 

Instead, he sees her loose hair spread across the pillow, her face turned away from him, and he feels how utterly _right_ it is, and for the first time, he gets why his mom married his dad six months after they met.

 

It has nothing to do with small towns, and everything to do with this feeling that they belong to forever, the two of them. He’s eager to know her foibles and her faults the way only someone who lives with her knows, and he wants to map out her body and ask about her scars.

 

He wants to know what makes her happy, what food makes her sigh with contentment, what would make her crawl up and kiss him, push him down and have her wicked way with him.

 

He wants her—all of her—for forever.

 

“Stop staring,” she mumbles, rubbing her face against the pillow.

 

“I’ll make breakfast,” he offers. “Oatmeal?”

 

She pushes her head up. “Cinnamon and sugar?”

 

“With a sprinkling of nutmeg,” he confirms.

 

She blinks, and then sits fully upright. “Okay. I need coffee, though.”

 

“I’m a police officer,” he laughs, heading out of the room. “Of course I have coffee.”

 

By the time the oatmeal is done, with her coffee at her place (she surprises him when she puts a twist of cinnamon in it, along with sugar but no cream), they sit and eat. He’s pretty sure she’s going to run home to pick up her dancing clothes, and he’s already in his uniform, but even though they don’t speak, the silence is nice. It’s companionable.

 

He kisses her on the cheek as he grabs her empty bowl. “I’ll see you later.”

 

She nods, draining her coffee mug. “Yes.”

 

He leaves, and walks on air for the rest of the day.

 

\--

 

“So your father refuses to accept his part?” Ronin asks, refilling his tea cup. He offers to refill hers, but she shakes her head, tucking Cara against her chest and adjusting her arms. “He prefers to blame it all on Mandrake?”

 

“Like, I hadn’t heard that Mandrake made Mom feel uncomfortable, but it kinda makes sense? But that wasn’t the overriding reason, because to the extent that Mom talked to me about the divorce, it was all about Dad. But I don’t think Dad wants to think about it. I know Grandma Lyse tried to talk to him about it a couple of times while I was growing up, but I never heard what came out of it.”

 

“So what is your decision here?”

 

“I’ve got a month and a half before I turn 18,” she sighs, cooing to Cara to forestall her crying. Cara opens her mouth and it turns into a yawn, and she burbles a little before resting her forehead against MK, falling asleep. “I’ll be gone for two weeks, for the bit of the trial that requires me and for the verdict, but I don’t know if I can stay with Dad after the trial, and I won’t officially be on my own until I turn eighteen. I can afford an apartment, but--.”

 

“Do you want to live on your own?”

 

“Not really? I’m not too good when I’m by myself all the time. I know that now, and Nod’s been pretty up front with me about wanting me to live with him, and—I wouldn’t mind, and I like him, but--,” she huffs out a sigh. “It’s not where I need to be right now.”

 

“You’re always welcome to stay with us,” he comments, drinking his tea.

 

“I wouldn’t want to impose--.”

 

“Believe me, you wouldn’t,” he says dryly. “Tara’s been dreaming up schemes to get you to stay beyond Sunday. We both like you a great deal, and a third pair of hands would help immensely, since Tara’s already back to work, and she’ll officially go back to work at Town Hall starting in two weeks. Since paternal leave doesn’t exist, I’m already back at work. By the time you’d head to school, the nightly feedings should end and we’ll have adjusted. If you say yes now, you’ll save yourself from whatever zany schemes Tara will have concocted.”

 

“Oh good,” MK says, and there’s a tiny smile tucked away. “It’s really fine?”

 

“It’s really fine,” he tells her. “Now, tell me—about the trial. How are you getting to Westchester?”

 

“By train,” she says. “I’ve already got a hotel reservation for the two weeks I’ll be there. Dad signed off on it but I used my card, and I thought that while I was in Westchester, I’d grab some of my mom’s stuff, like her journals and some other stuff, since I’m in a better place about it now.”

 

“Are you going alone?”

 

“I wasn’t planning on Dad coming,” she snorts, stifling a yawn. “Yeah, I guess.”

 

“You shouldn’t go alone,” he says, refilling his tea. “It will be difficult.”

 

“Yeah,” MK acknowledges, “but—this is something I have to do.”

 

He frowns, but she’s saved from his answer by the appearance of sleepy Tara entering the room. “How did your meeting with your dad go?” she yawns, sitting next to MK on the couch and smiling at Cara.

 

“Not great,” MK says glumly, passing Cara to Tara. “He pretty much said Mom’s main reason for leaving was Mandrake being creepy.”

 

Tara blinks. “ _What?_ ”

 

“True story,” MK sighs, leaning back on couch and resting her feet on the coffee table. “Apparently she didn’t like how closely Mandrake watched me.”

 

Tara blinks again. “Is he incapable of acknowledging fault in himself?”

 

“I guess,” MK sighs.

 

“Does this mean you’re moving in with us?” Tara bounces lightly, so as not to disturb Cara.

 

Ronin gives MK an ‘I Told You So’ look. MK giggles.

 

“Ronin’s officially extended the invitation,” MK says, stretching her hands before clenching them into fists.

 

“Please,” Tara asks, “Please come stay with us.”

 

MK smiles shyly. “Okay.”

 

\--

 

“You wanted to see me?”

 

“Yes,” Ronin says distractedly, shuffling some papers aside. The shadows are deeper under his eyes, but he also gives off an air of contentment that Nod’s never seen before. It suits him. “You asked for your vacation from the second week of August to the fourth week of August.”

 

“Yeah,” Nod says slowly.

 

“That’s when MK needs to be at the trial.”

 

“Finn said he was cool with it when I asked...”

 

Ronin looks at him. “Are you planning on asking her if you can come along?”

 

Nod sticks his hands in his pockets. “I was getting there. Why, are you going to scold me now?”

 

“No, I think you should go. She shouldn’t be alone for that.”

 

“You really want the two of us to be away for two weeks? Together?”

 

Ronin eyes him. “Should I mistrust you?”

 

Nod shrugs. “Guess not. I’m just a little surprised.”

 

“Everyone knows that you’re desperately in love with her,” Ronin says, and Nod takes a step back, face flaming.

 

“Is that something everyone knows?”

 

“Well, your _mother_ knows.” Dread knots in Nod’s stomach. If Mom knows, he’s so dead, because while she’s met MK, he hasn’t ‘Introduced Her,’ and Mom has Certain Opinions On That Kind Of Thing.

 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

 

“I will, um, get right on that,” he stammers, “excuse me.”

 

Ronin lets him go with no small amount of amusement. Once he’s back at his desk, he calls Mom.

 

She’s at home. “Nod? What’s wrong?”

 

“So, you, um, talked to Ronin?”

 

“Oh yes,” she sighs, and oh god, he _is_ in trouble. “I would have liked to meet her properly, Nod.”

 

He winces. “I will take care of it?”

 

“See that you do,” Mom says coolly, before hanging up. He puts down the receiver, resting his forehead on the desk.

 

Yeah. _So_ much trouble.

 

When he picks MK up after she gets off work, he says, “No usual Monday shenanigans. You’re having dinner with me and my mom.”

 

She peers at him. “You’re worried? Why are you worried?”

 

“Mom has decided opinions,” he says neutrally. He thinks she’s the only one who doesn’t know about—him, and how he feels about her, and with his luck, Mom’ll be the one to tell her.

 

“Does she dislike me?” MK covers her mouth with her hands, but Nod shakes his head as he steers her toward his car.

 

“No, but she wanted to meet you properly.”

 

“Oh, okay then,” she relaxes, leaning back in her seat as he heads into the housing development his mom lives in. Her little house is at the end of the street, and as he gets out, Mr. Reynolds says, “Hello Nod!” from across the street.

 

He waves back as he opens the door for MK. “Hey, Mr. Reynolds.”

 

“Who’s that?” MK whispers as he tucks her hand into the curve of his arm, smiling at his mother’s neighbor.

 

“Neighbor,” Nod mutters, leading her up the walk past his mother’s carefully-trimmed rose bushes. In the backyard, leading up directly to the forest, is where his mother tends and feed the crows of the neighborhood. “He’s okay.”

 

She relaxes against him as he opens the door, and when he calls, “Mom, I’m home,” his mom appears from the kitchen in the pink apron he gave her for Christmas when he was seven.

 

“Oh hello Nod, MK,” she greets, wiping her hands on her apron. “The lasagna’s almost done, feel free to make yourself at home.”

 

MK lags behind him as he walks into his mom’s home, so he grabs her hand and pulls her along. The table’s in the kitchen, and he lets go of her as she sits down, while he reaches for glasses. “Mom, what’s in the fridge?”

 

“Tea, lemonade, and water,” she says, strapping on hotpads and taking the lasagna out of the oven. Plates are waiting by the stove, and she starts to spoon off corners of steaming pasta, cheese, and sauce onto them. “I’ll take tea, thank you.”

 

He looks at MK, who nods, tracing the hem of the tablecloth. He pours tea for all three of them (it looks like raspberry tea, his mother’s favorite), putting the glasses on the table and going back for the plates.

 

“This looks great, Mrs. Chercheur,” MK says.

 

“Please, sweetheart, call me Marina,” Mom says with a smile. “So, tell me about _Swan Lake_. Which ending are you doing?”

 

“Since there’s going to be a lot of kids involved, we’re doing the happy ending,” MK says, “since, y’know, suicide isn’t exactly the greatest of endings.”

 

“No, indeed not,” Mom agrees. “Will you be playing both Odette and Odile?”

 

“Yes,” MK nods, taking a bite of lasagna. Her eyelids flutter, and Nod squeezes her knee lightly under the table. His mother’s cooking is _that_ good. “This is really good, Mrs—Marina.”

 

“Thank you, dear. So you’re playing both characters,” Mom muses. “Are you looking forward to it?”

 

MK shrugs. “I’ve done bits from it over the course of my dance education. When I was sixteen, I was part of the Cygnets, because my school was putting on the show.”

 

“So it’s not unfamiliar to you.”

 

“Oh no,” MK shakes her head. “This is actually one of my favorite ballets. Tchaikovsky was just brilliant, I love all of his work.”

 

“I concur,” Mom says, starting to eat. “I understand you will be attending the Tisch School of Performing Arts next year?”

 

“Yeah—well, I have to audition first. If I pass, I’ll be majoring in dance.”

 

“Sounds intriguing. What are you going to do with that?”

 

Nod looks at MK, still rubbing his thumb in a circle on her knee. Has she decided about the dance school? Would she tell his mom? MK shrugs, pushing away his hand underneath the table. “I’d probably tour with a company for a little while if I can, before deciding to teach. I love teaching.”

 

“I know the feeling,” Mom says with a soft smile, and the tension relaxes, and they finish the dinner fairly companionably. Before he takes MK back to the Mayor’s Mansion, though, he stops to hug his mother and kiss her goodbye.

 

Mom looks at him searchingly. “Stay here for a moment.”

 

“Mom, MK is waiting--.”

 

“It will only take a moment,” she disappears into her bedroom, before coming back with a black velvet box. He takes it from her, looking at her with confusion.

 

“What’s this--?”

 

She motions for him to open it, and he stares when he realizes it’s a diamond ring—a round diamond sitting on a silver band, accompanied by two emeralds that are _almost_ the same shade of green as MK’s eyes. “It was my mother’s,” Mom says softly. “She passed it down to me, and now I’m giving it to you. I think you’re ready for it. _She_ may not be the one, but I think you’re finally mature enough to have it.” She tucks some of his hair behind his ear, cupping his cheek briefly. “You’ve—settled. I grew worried when you went through girl after girl, and I was starting to despair you’d never settle down. If she ends up going through with her plan, even if she comes back here, you two may ultimately find other people, but I don’t think you’ll fall back on your old ways again.”

 

A lump’s in his throat, and he swallows frantically. “Thanks Mom.” He kisses her cheek, before shoving the box into his pocket and heading out of the kitchen to where MK is leaning against the wall near the door. “You ready?”

 

“Yeah,” she says, following him out. “I like your mom.”

 

“I like her too,” he says cheekily, opening the door for her. She gives him a Look but slides into his car, and he joins her on the other side. “Hey, so about the trial...”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You’re leaving on Sunday evening, right?”

 

“Yeah,” she says, looking guarded as he pulls out of the driveway. “Why?”

 

“Would you like me to come with you? For moral support, I mean.”

 

She stares at him. “Don’t you have to work?”

 

He shrugs. “I usually take two weeks off in August to help Mom get ready for back to school, and they happen to coincide with the trial dates.” Actually true, except this year is his mom’s last year of teaching because next year she can retire. She told him she wouldn’t need him.

 

MK pulls on her bangs. “Would she be okay with that?”

 

He thinks about the ring in his pocket. “Yeah, I think she would be.”

 

“Well, if you don’t mind,” she says shyly. “I didn’t want to go alone, but I didn’t want to go with Dad, either.”

 

Hearing about her wrecked conversation with Professor Radcliffe makes him wince in sympathy. “Yeah, it’s totally okay. When’s the train leaving?”

 

“I’m on the four ‘o’clock train,” she says.

 

“I’ll be sure to get my ticket, and meet you there.”

 

“Thanks Nod,” she says quietly.

 

He badly wants to kiss her, but he’s driving so thus bad idea. “You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Two's going to cover the trial and assorted sundries, and I'll prob post that next week.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7, part 2: the trial and other sundries. We get Anna backstory here, and can I just say how much I adore writing her? I really need to incorporate her more. 
> 
> NSFW content. Nod's also exceedingly sentimental, a lot more sentimental than MK is. *pokes Nod*

MK checks her watch. She’s not anxious, waiting for Nod. Not at all.

 

She tries to distract herself by thinking of other things. Self-defense class is going _great_ (Aisling’s really happy with her progress, but something must be going on with her and Finn, because Finn was watching the two of them practice together and Aisling was even more stiff than usual), and they started practice for _Swan Lake_ on Tuesday. Marguerite, Olivia’s daughter, and Rosalia are really talented for being all of, like, 7, and the other girls (and five boys, which makes her _really_ happy), are on the spectrum of REALLY GOOD to good to about average. The boy who’s playing Prince Siegfried is about a year younger than she is, and he’s happy to tell her he’s joining the police force in two years when he’s old enough to attend the Academy.

 

He’s precious and he amuses her and there’s someone grabbing her shoulder. She unfocuses to realize Nod’s standing there, grinning, with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “Are you ready?”

 

She nods, and he slings her bag over his shoulder, following her as they get onto the train. They share a seat, and as it’s a little under two hours trip, she leans on his shoulder and promptly goes to sleep. He wakes her up when they get in, and she leads the way to their hotel. The clerk is Harmony Stratford, and she says, “Oh my god, MK, you’re here! For the trial, right?”

 

She manages a smile as Nod grasps her hand. “Yeah, afraid so.”

 

“I’m super sorry about that—I liked your mom. And who is this?”

 

“Nod Chercheur,” Nod says. He sounds amused.

 

“He’s my gigolo,” MK says, nodding at him as she hands over her card so she can check in. “He’s there to look pretty and hold the bags.”

 

Harmony nods, looking confused as she hands MK back her card, along with two room keys. “Well, I’ll see you around?”

 

“Yeah, I guess,” MK says, heading for the elevator. “Later, Harmony.”

 

Once they’re alone in the elevator, Nod hums, “Your gigolo?”

 

“Harmony won’t know what that is.”

 

“Do you not like her?”

 

“She’s kind of an airhead, but great at communication. In short, ideal for her job,” MK blows her hair out of her face. “I’m sorry, that’s mean.”

 

“Since we’ll be sharing a room, I could definitely play at being your gigolo,” he leers. “I’m sure we’d enjoy it. Are you into role-playing?”

 

MK rolls her eyes as they stop on floor four. “Oh please. Down boy.”

 

“I’m down for whatever you want.”

 

She thinks, guiltily, of the condoms she’s hidden in her bag. She has a couple of ideas, but this isn’t the right time. “Not right now, summer child,” she says, inserting her room key. When she booked it, she thought it was only going to be her, so she got a room with a king bed.

 

Seeing Nod’s face when he sees the bed makes her blush to her toes.

 

“My, my,” he drawls, dropping their bags carefully on the desk and advancing on her. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

 

“N-no,” she stutters, taking a step back. His grin grows, and he crowds her, framing her face with his hands. It feels good, and she grips his wrists, looking up at him. “When I got the room, I was planning for me.”

 

“There’s a _lot_ we can do in a king,” he tells her. “And it would give you something good to think about before the trial.”

 

She raises her eyebrows. “Are you really trying to get me to sleep with you before the trial of the man who murdered my mother with the logic that it’ll provide good memories to focus on when it gets tough tomorrow?”

 

“Yes,” he says baldly.

 

She laughs slightly. “ _No_. But I wouldn’t be adverse to dinner. We can get room service.”

 

“Eat in bed? How scandalous, Ms. Kennedy,” he drawls. He’s not letting go of her, and she finds she doesn’t want him to.

 

“Try ‘I’m tired and don’t want to go out again tonight,’” she sighs.

 

He laughs slightly. “Okay, I see where you’re coming from. Tell me what you want, and I’ll order it while you take a shower.”

 

“Why? Do I stink?” she asks, alarmed.

 

“No, but it’ll take your hair time to dry, and you probably don’t want to go to bed with wet hair.”

 

She relaxes. “True. Okay, I want some variation of chicken. I’m trusting you. It’s a big responsibility.”

 

He nods solemnly. “I promise to attend it with my utmost.”

 

She leans up and kisses his cheek, because she can’t resist. “Thank you.”

 

He gets chicken sandwiches, and they eat together in bed while watching _Whose Line Is it Anyway?_ (note to self: eating in bed while watching an improv comedy show? Not the best idea, self), and when they fall asleep, it’s with relatively good humor.

 

She wakes up earlier than him, because she has to appear as a ‘credible witness,’ (the prosecutor’s term, not hers), and that means business attire and make-up.

 

She’s pulled on her skirt and blouse, and is applying the last of her eyeliner when Nod groans and rolls toward her. “Ugh, why are you _awake?_ ”

 

“Because I have to get ready for court,” she says with amusement, finishing up her modest eye make-up. (There’s a time and a place for dramatics. This isn’t it). “And I want enough time to get breakfast before we’re in court all day.”

 

“Come lay here with me,” he whines, patting the bed next to him.

 

She laughs, shaking her head. “You’d kiss me,” she points out, tucking her bland pink lipgloss into her rarely-used purse and brushing out her hair. She’s going to pin it back, but she needs to brush it first. “And you haven’t brushed your teeth yet.”

 

“The romance is dead,” he says dramatically, getting out of bed and padding into the bathroom.

 

She giggles. “Was it ever there?”

 

He pouts at her in the mirror as he squeezes toothpaste onto his brush. “Oh please,” he says, before starting to brush his teeth.

 

Her hair shimmers like copper in the half-light of the dim room, and she sticks a couple of bobby pins in her mouth as she twists her hair into a loose knot at the back of her head. She holds it and starts to pin it into place, growling at the loose strands that brush the back of her neck.

 

She deliberately doesn’t think about her about her court appearance in two hours. Whenever she does, the solid knot of anxiety in her stomach pulses and she fights the urge to vomit.

 

Nod leans on the doorframe as he watches her struggle with her hair. “Can I help?”

 

“I need to put this pin on that twist,” she says frustrated. “Once I do that, I’m done.”

 

“Let me,” he offers, opening his hand. She drops the bobby pin on his open palm, and he moves behind her. “Move your head,” he says, and she lets her head fall forward as he grasps that one hank of hair, twisting it carefully and pinning it along the line of her scalp. It doesn’t hurt, but it _is_ very tight, meaning that she won’t knock it out of the knot over the course of the day, and as she lets her head straighten, he runs his knuckles down the nape of her neck and he chuckles quietly as she shivers. “I have come to the conclusion that your neck is incredibly sensitive,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around her diaphragm and pulling her close to him.

 

“Oh?” she says, hating the way her breath hitches. He hears it, because he laughs.

 

“I can turn your knees to jelly with very little effort,” he tells her.

 

She doesn’t want to look at him, because she _knows_ that looking up at him at this moment would mean that she forgets about her court obligations today, and she can’t do that.

 

So instead, she meets his eyes in the mirror.

 

He frames her well in the mirror, and her breath catches at the softness in his caramel eyes. It’s unfair for him to look at her like she’s his everything. She steps away from him, breathing deeply. “Go put on clothes,” she orders, “and I’ll take you to the best diner around here.”

 

He makes a face at her, but she steps into the bathroom to use the necessary before they go, and by the time she’s done and has washed her hands _and_ put on perfume—Marc Jacob’s Daisy, her mom’s favorite scent—Nod’s ready to go, in his usual green shirt, black jeans, and short boots. “Do you ever wear something other than green?”

 

“Oh really, Ms.-I-only-wear-pink-grey-and-black,” Nod snorts.

 

MK looks down, and she realizes she’s in her black A line skirt with a pale pink button-down shirt, with her black boots. “...fair.”

 

Nod swoops in and kisses her cheek. “Breakfast?”

 

“Breakfast,” she agrees, and they leave the hotel hand-in-hand.

 

Day One of her testimony involves her being cross-examined by the prosecution. Tomorrow, the defense gets their turn.

 

She’s seated on the witness stand, made to swear on the Bible, and the prosecution starts with, “Please state your name for the court stenographer.”

 

“Mary Katherine Kennedy,” she says. Nod’s in the courtroom, and he nods to her as the prosecutor starts.

 

“Can you take us back to the night that your mother died?”

 

“I had gotten up in the middle of the night...”

 

All four hours of testimony go like that. The prosecutor treats her fairly gently, but she can tell that the man wants her to be emotionally overwrought, to cry. The jury’s a mix of men and women, and the women are older, so they likely have children or grandchildren.

 

Despite her sadness and her pain at recounting her experience of her mother’s death, her eyes are dry. The Westchester Strangler is sitting across the courtroom, eyes down—he’s taken her mother from her. He won’t get her tears.

 

The judge declares court is adjourned until tomorrow morning, and as she climbs out of the witness stand, her knees wobble and she catches herself on the side. The prosecutor helps her, and his face is all sympathy. “You did a good job today,” he says softly as he assists her to the little gate that separates the prosecutor/defense tables from the rest of the courtroom. Nod’s idling there, waiting for her. “I have to meet with the defense and the judge—he’s just called for the allowance of new evidence—but if there’s any change I’ll let you know. You’re staying at the Rose and Thorn, right?”

 

“Yeah,” she says hoarsely. “Room 451.”

 

He nods, opening the little gate, and Nod instinctively reaches for her. “I’ll let you know the results tonight.”

 

“Thank you,” she says, grabbing onto Nod. “I’ll talk to you later then.”

 

“You okay?” Nod asks quietly, steering her out of the courtroom. “You look like death warmed over.”

 

She flinches. “Please don’t say something like that.”

 

“I’m sorry. You look like chalk,” he amends, “and your eyes are huge, and did you realize you’re trembling?”

 

No, she hadn’t, but she can’t stop. “It was—harder than I thought, going through it. For the entire crowd of people.”

 

He wraps an arm around her, tugging her into him so he can brush a kiss across her temple. “Let’s get some food into you,” he suggests, “and then maybe back to the hotel, so you can sleep.”

 

“I want to show you my house,” she says. “I know the family that bought it, and—they’ll let us walk through it.”

 

“Is that a good idea?”

 

“I can’t be afraid forever,” she says.

 

He squeezes her, taking a turn for the sandwich shop. They have nice tomato bisque—maybe she’ll do that, with some soda or maybe a coffee. Something hot, with something sweet. Her body feels so cold. “All right.”

 

He settles her in a booth, gets her order, and saunters up to the counter. She puts her head down on her arms, closing her eyes and trying to think of good things, but all she can think about is her mother on that bed with bruises around her throat.

 

“MK?” She looks up to see Michael, and she blinks. His grin is blinding, and she remembers why she fell for him. “Wow, it’s good to see you.”

 

“You too. When are you going to school?”

 

“I leave in a couple of days,” he says, “flying to Augusta. You?”

 

“I put school on hold for a year,” she says, propping her face on her hand. “But I’ve got an audition with the Tisch School of Performing Arts in November.”

 

“That’s really great,” he says sincerely, “you’re an awesome dancer. Are you here alone?”

 

“Not entirely,” Nod says from behind him. He’s managing the heavy tray heroically, and as Michael moves out of his way, Nod slides it onto the table. “I’m Nod Chercheur.”

 

“Michael Wong,” Michael says, offering a hand. “Are you MK’s friend?”

 

Nod looks at her, and MK fields that one. “He’s my boyfriend, actually.”

 

Michael’s eyebrows go up, but then he relaxes. “She’s great,” he tells Nod. “A really awesome person.”

 

MK smiles despite herself.

 

“I know,” Nod grins, shaking Michael’s hand. “She got me to read John Donne.”

 

“Same here,” Michael laughs, “and Petrarch, _and_ Dante. It’s certainly an education, dating her.”

 

“I don’t recall you objecting,” MK says archly.

 

“I didn’t say it was bad. Break a leg with your audition, I really hope you get in.”

 

“Thanks Michael. You do good at the University of Maine, okay?”

 

He nods, taking his leave. Nod slides into the booth. “Ex-boyfriend?”

 

“He broke up with me after Mom died. He couldn’t deal with the media pressure.”

 

Nod emanates disapproval, but she shakes her head. “He has perfectly legitimate reasons,” she says, “I didn’t blame him, and with everything else going on, it was a good idea not to have to worry about how a boyfriend would take it. As you can see, we’re still friends.”

 

“Yeah,” Nod says, giving her her soup bowl and tall soda. He’s got a Reuben with a cup of coffee (can take the boy out of the police department but can’t take the police department out of the boy), and they eat quickly. Food, plus surprise Michael, brings warmth back, and by the time they’ve finished, she feels a lot better.

 

She gets up, offering her hand to Nod. “Come see my house.”

 

Her house isn’t too far from here, but she’s dismayed to see a ‘For Sale’ sign out on the lawn. The Odyssey is on the drive, meaning that they’re home, and when she knocks on the door, Sarah Larke answers. “Mary Katherine! You’re here,” she hugs MK. “And this is?”

 

“Nod Chercheur, ma’am.”

 

“Oh, call me Sarah,” Sarah says. “Is this your new young man, MK?”

 

“Of a kind,” she says with a slight smile. “Sarah, you’re selling the house?”

 

Sarah sighs. “It’s too hard on David—he and your mother worked together in the community, and he just can’t--,” Sarah’s mouth trembles.

 

MK nods. “I get it. Do you mind if--?”

 

“Oh no, not at all,” she says quickly. “Come in.”

 

The house doesn’t look the same—well, it wouldn’t—and it doesn’t smell like vanilla anymore, but she’s still swamped with homesickness at the familiar blue-and-yellow wallpaper. Nod senses this and tightly grabs her hand; she squeezes back.

 

She takes him through the house, and they return to the hotel with mutual sighs. She takes a shower, to wash away the memories, and when she gets out, Nod is asleep, so she tiptoes past him and heads out of the hotel for the cemetery. She should’ve done this when they got in, but before she introduces Nod to Mom, she needs to talk to Mom herself.

 

The epitaph is simple:

 

ANNA ELIZABETH KENNEDY

21 MARCH 1965-18 MAY 2013

DEATH IS BUT THE NEXT GREAT ADVENTURE

 

Mom had always liked that one quote of Dumbledore’s, so MK had put it on the headstone. She sits down, spreading out the contents of a bag lunch. “Hi Mom. I know you haven’t seen me come by since the funeral, but Dad wanted out as early as he could. I wish I knew more about why you left, but I thought I’d read your journals, if that’s okay.

 

“I met Tara and Ronin—Tara said you two were friends. I met Mandrake too—he threatened to kill me through shenanigans, but he’s dead now, Ronin killed him because Mandrake almost shot me, and definitely would have killed Tara. Tara has a baby now with Ronin, and they named her Cara Anna, after you.” Tears pool in her eyes, but she wipes them away. “I even met someone. He and I have had our fits and starts, but his name is Nod. I don’t know if you knew his dad and mom—since you never talked about Moonhaven or Dad if you could help it, I guess the journals will have to help me on that front.

 

“Tara talked me into auditioning for the dance major at NYU. She said it was a way to keep you close, and since I--,” she takes a deep breath, “I was too afraid to take anything personal of yours after the funeral, but I will now. I need the reminder that you’re still...around.” The wind picks up, and it caresses her face. The wind’s cool, cooler than Westchester demands in August (the warmth here slapped her in the face when she got off the train, because she was so used to it being chilly in Moonhaven), and she takes another deep breath, hoping it doesn’t hitch in her chest. “I really like Nod, mom. More than I remember liking Karl, or Chase, or Michael. I mean, I really liked Michael, but I knew our relationship would end when we left for college. We weren’t forever. That’s what probably made it easier when he broke up with me after you died. But Nod—I refused to believe for a while that I liked him as much as I did, because I didn’t think I deserved love, because I let you die.” A tear escapes her willpower, and it spots the cloth of her skirt as she bows her head. “A lot of people have talked to me about how wrong I was about that. I don’t think I’m wrong about that, but they have managed to clue me in that you wouldn’t want me to cut myself off.

 

“I think I love him, Mom. I don’t know how you’d feel about him—I’m thinking of going back to Moonhaven after I finish school and making a name for myself, opening a dance school. I know you and I talked about that once or twice. I don’t want to go back for him alone, but he’s influencing my decision-making more than I’d like. I was able to compartmentalize what I wanted from my life during previous relationships. I can’t do that with him, and I don’t know why.

 

“Added to all of that, my relationship with Dad has deteriorated completely. He refuses to believe—or at least admit—that he had anything to do with your leaving him. He prefers to put it all on Mandrake, and I don’t know why. You always accepted your mistakes, so maybe I’m biased, but you always taught me that an adult is someone who accepts they made a mistake and tries to make it right. Dad doesn’t do that, and I really think he is an overgrown child, in a man’s body, but that means he’s not a father. I’ll never come first to him, and that’s not right. I gave him opportunities, and he’s ignored them or thrown them back in my face. I’m not obligated to him. I know you wouldn’t hold that against me, but—it matters to say out loud, that’s all.”

 

She smiles slightly, laughing a little. “Wow, I really went on there, didn’t I? A lot has happened in the two or so months since you died. I wish you were here, and I wish you could meet Nod. I’d like to know what you think of him. I should get back before he comes looking for me, but—I love you Mom. That’s never changed.” As she gets up, pulling her stuff together (she never got a chance to eat), the wind picks up slightly, winding around her body and her legs before passing on.

 

She smiles, feeling more at peace, and heads back to the hotel.

 

\--

 

When Nod wakes up, his head is heavy and he feels more than a little groggy. He amuses himself by thinking that he’s affected more by the trial proceedings than MK, who he’s pretty sure never joined him for a nap. As he sits up, he hears her say, “Good evening.”

 

It’s well past five. He goggles. “I slept that long?”

 

“I guess you needed it,” she says, adjusting the lamp over her shoulder. She’s embroidering something new—it looks like a border for a sheet, and the pattern looks like hummingbirds, white on green. He stands over her, examining the careful stitches. He’s never seen anyone who could do that kind of work, though admittedly, his mother has stuff that _her_ mother embroidered way back when.

 

“That looks nice,” he comments. “Is it for you, or are you selling it?”

 

Her cheeks turn a dull red. “I’m embroidering a second sheet set for my hope chest.”

 

“Well, if you were selling it, _I’d_ buy it,” he says, and he means it. The work’s great.

 

“Good to know,” she says dryly, turning her eyes back to her work. He squints at her, and sees how puffy her eyes are.

 

“Have you been crying?”

 

“Off and on,” she says absently, and now he _knows_ she’s emotionally drained; normally she’d protest at his statement, before unwillingly agreeing. “I visited my mother’s grave.”

 

“I would have gone with you.”

 

She looks at him, smiling, and she seems more at peace than he’s ever seen her, except maybe with baby Cara. “I know. But I needed to go by myself. We can go later in the week, after I visit the storage site I put most of hers and my things. I need your muscles,” she pats his upper arm, before returning to her work.

 

“I knew it, you only wanted me for my body,” he jokes.

 

For answer, she licks her lips. “Why else would I?”

 

He kisses her cheek. “I’m going to scare up some dinner, how does that sound?”

 

“Brilliant,” she says, “there’s an Ethiopian take-out place, if you’re daring. Or if you’re boring, there’s a Chinese place about a block away that’s also very good.”

 

“I could do Ethiopian,” he says. He searches for his wallet, and she passes him hers.

 

“Take what you need,” she says.

 

“I can do this,” he argues.

 

Her teeth flash in a smile. “Tomorrow night.”

 

“If you promise.”

 

“I do,” she says, frowning at a knot in her thread. She slides her needle through it and pulls, widening the knot so she can undo it. “It’ll take about forty-five minutes, so you should go now.”

 

He grumbles about her as he pulls on his boots, but she merely laughs at him, her needle dancing through the green cloth of the sheet. He’s just finished tying them when there’s a quiet knock at the door. She straightens, and when he answers it, it’s the prosecutor.

 

“Come in,” MK says, putting her embroidery down. Nod goes over to stand by her, and she seems to think this won’t be good news, not if the way she’s clutching her embroidery hoop is anything to go by. He places a hand on her shoulder, and she grips it. “What is it, sir?”

 

“The defense, Charles Luther, demanded to allow your mental health records to be entered into the court evidence. Judge Costa didn’t allow it, but Agent Starling’s psychiatric evaluations have been. In all honesty, I think Luther’s going say that your mental trauma means that your memory of that night is clouded, which is not uncommon in trauma survivors.”

 

“But mine isn’t,” MK argues, her knuckles white where she’s grabbing onto him.

 

“That’s what you’re going to need to prove,” the prosecutor says heavily. “I just wanted to warn you.”

 

“Thank you,” MK whispers, closing her eyes.

 

The prosecutor nods, taking his leave as Nod looks down at her. Her eyes are screwed shut, and he kneels next to her. “MK?”

 

She starts to hug herself, and he removes her embroidery from her lap, and he rubs her arms gently. That makes her open her eyes. “Ableism is alive and well,” she says at last. “I mean, I knew it was, but this is going to suck.”

 

“The questioning your mental state thing? Yeah. It is.”

 

“I hate everything,” she says, letting him unfold her arms and rub her hands. “I don’t want to do this.”

 

He waits, and sure enough, she sighs, “But I’ll do it anyway. All right, let’s get dinner.”

 

They eat, and she turns in early, but he stays up, reading. He’s reading _Pride and Prejudice_ at last (he tends to save his books for vacation), and while he’s struggling with it, he’s at the Netherfield Ball, and when he gets to Darcy insulting Elizabeth, he winces. Bad move, dude.

 

He reads for a while, and when his yawns start to threaten to crack his jaw is when he puts the book down, and gets under the covers. MK had been curled up against him, but now that he’s lying down, she moves until her back is touching him, and she sighs out in her sleep, relaxing.

 

In response, he wraps an arm around her waist and drifts into dreamland.

 

His dreams tonight aren’t pleasant—there was a fire, six months back, and there had been a little girl caught in it. The fire department was slow, so against Ronin’s orders, he’d run into the house with a dripping blanket. The stairs had groaned underneath his feet, but they held, and he’d run into the girl’s room, pulled her out. The stairs had given on their way down, but they’d been close enough that he had only fractured his ankle, but he got them both out.

 

This time, the dream changes from it’s usual plot (he usually doesn’t get to the girl in time or the stairs give out above, and his legs are broken and the little girl hit her head or, or, or), and it features him being held in place outside the house by Mandrake, but Mandrake’s skin is grey and he has yellow eyes and a cruel smile. Mandrake’s fingers have turned into claws, and through the windows, he sees MK screaming. “Let me _go_ ,” he demands, trying to get away from Mandrake, but Mandrake shakes him like a puppy, and he sees that MK’s caught fire through the window. He can hear the screeching of the fire department, but they’re not coming fast enough, and MK runs at the window, breaking the glass and following after it, only now the building is much taller than two stories and—

 

He sits bolt upright in bed, pouring sweat. Next to him, MK’s not much better, only she’s still asleep. Her mouth is twisted and she looks like she’s in pain, and every so often, she whimpers, curling into a small question mark against the white of the sheets. He hesitates—waking up someone with PTSD can end badly—but he places a hand on her shoulder. “MK?”

 

She cries out when he touches her, and he snatches his hand back, lowering his voice. “MK—Mary Katherine? You’re okay, you’re safe, no one here will hurt you.”

 

He calls to her, and gradually her face starts to relax as her eyes blink open. She’s just as sweaty as he was, and she focuses on his face. “...was I dreaming again?”

 

“I think so. Do you remember?”

 

“No, I rarely remember my dreams,” she sits up, grimacing at the feel of cloth sticking to sweaty skin. “Why are you awake?”

 

“I had a nightmare,” he says, “of someone trapped in a burning house, and I couldn’t save them.”

 

“I can never save my mother in my nightmares,” she murmurs, standing up and lifting her hair off her neck. “I’m forced to watch what he would have done to her, over and over.”

 

“Let’s change our clothes,” he suggests, getting out of bed and padding into the bathroom. He can feel her hesitate, but then she follows, and there’s a small closet in the bathroom that they’ve shoved their clothing into—well, her court clothes are hanging up on the rack, but t-shirts, shorts, those are all in that small closet.

 

He yanks the shirt over his head, wetting down a washcloth and rubbing it over his neck and down his chest. “Help me?” he asks—there are parts of his back he can’t reach.

 

She takes the washcloth from him, rubbing down his lower back. It’s not a substitute for a shower, but if he showers, he’ll wake up fully, and given that it’s right around 2:30 in the morning, he wants to go back to sleep.

 

He pulls a shirt from the closet and pulls it on. His boxer-briefs are fine the way they are, and his shorts are also okay—the shirt got the worst of it.

 

MK, who’s in long pajama pants and a t-shirt, looks infinitely worse off. “Do you want me to leave?” he asks, putting the washcloth in the sink and rinsing it. “I know you may want--.”

 

“You can stay,” she says, pulling off her t-shirt more carefully than he did, “but—no innuendos.”

 

“I don’t think I have any right now,” he mutters as she turns her back to him, wiping down her front with a damp washcloth of her own. He scrapes it carefully down her back and up her neck. If he wasn’t so tired, and so jangly from the dream, he’d appreciate the level of trust she’s showing him here, but he finds that he’s grateful for her presence, because waking up alone after a nightmare can be a _bitch_.

 

“I hate waking up alone,” her words rush out, as if she’s trying to justify her vulnerability. “I don’t want to wake Dad up, he got used to me waking up screaming. Now with Tara and Ronin, I don’t wake up screaming, but when I do get up, I check on Cara, get a glass of water, and sometimes Ronin and I, or Tara and I, have conversations while they feed the baby.”

 

“It’s okay,” he tells her, stepping away while she pulls on a new t-shirt and pulls off her pants. These she hangs over a hook and doesn’t reach for shorts, and he realizes she’s not going back to bed with them on. “I hate waking up alone too, because being with people after I’ve had a nightmare reminds me I’m still connected, not as alone as I fear I am.”

 

“Yeah,” she echoes, heading back to bed as he follows. “I hate—loneliness.”

 

And she’s gone through a large amount of it. Empathy and affection swell up inside him, but he holds it in. They pull the comforter down the bed, within grabbing distance if they get cold, but the sheet will be enough for now.

 

His sleep isn’t exactly restful, but it’ll do. She moves as much as he does, and by the time she gets up to get ready, he knows she hasn’t slept much. He sits up in bed, finding his book while she takes a quick shower and blows her hair dry.

 

She’s in all black today, with her hair pinned back. She looks like a seventeen-year-old widow, and he wonders if that’s the point. With plain silver studs and a silver chain, she looks as severe as Mrs. Ellis could. “Do you intend to look like a widow?” he asks with interest, marking his place with a bookmark and putting the book aside.

 

She looks down. “No, but I guess it works. Luther’s notorious for somehow getting witnesses for the prosecution to recant while on the stand—I don’t want to be manipulated into that.”

 

“I doubt he could do that to you,” he says, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Are you testifying tomorrow?”

 

She makes a face. “Hopefully not. Tomorrow, hopefully I sit in the courtroom while Agent Starling gets grilled. Next week is closing arguments; the verdict should be Friday.”

 

“You’ll do fine,” he says, heading into the bathroom to brush his teeth. “Trust me.”

 

It doesn’t go well.

 

MK holds it together, but when Luther asks, “According to Agent Starling’s evaluation, you showed a potential for self-harm or even suicide following your mother’s death and your own injuries. Have you attempted such action?” he sees MK swallow. He hadn’t seen evidence of self-harm, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t put it where he couldn’t see it.

 

“Objection,” the prosecutor shouts. “There is no relevance to such a question.”

 

“Sustained,” the judge says, glaring at Luther. “Strike that question from the record.”

 

Luther smiles. “In your testimony yesterday, you testified that it was dark in your mother’s room during your altercation. How could you positively identify anyone in those conditions?”

 

This is a stupid question, Nod fumes. The Strangler should have made a plea bargain, because he was _caught in the act_. The lawyer should have told him to do it. Instead, they sit through this farce, as though the Stranger’s DNA isn’t in the evidence at all.

 

Luther makes her go every single detail, and he jumps on her when she misstates something or forgets, as if to say her very human, slight mental lapses mean she’s not a credible witness. She still doesn’t cry—probably has something to do with her mother’s murderer in the room—but she gets close a couple of times.

 

They run two hours over what they should have, and by the time Nod’s leading her out, she’s shaking both from emotional distress and from a lack of blood sugar.

 

He gets her crackers from the court vending machine, and then they head into a McDonald’s. It’s not good food, but it works, because she needs to sleep off the tension.

 

On their way back to the hotel (she’s walking but clearly dozing, so he’s leading), a woman with dark skin and black hair swept up into a messy bun stops him. “MK?”

 

“What?” MK says sleepily, her head lolling on Nod’s chest. He debates about the merit of just sweeping her up, but he decides, not in front of this woman.

 

The woman’s lips part in a smile. “I’ll leave you alone then. I’m Martha Camejo, her mother’s best friend.”

 

Nod squints at her. “She hasn’t exactly mentioned you.”

 

“Probably not,” Martha says, “but if you were looking for dinner, you could certainly come round to my house. It’s down the block and around the corner from the Rose and Thorn, and you won’t have to pay money for it, though I _may_ ask you to do dishes.”

 

“She knows you?” he asks suspiciously.

 

Martha shrugs. “We haven’t talked since before she left, likely because the memories are too close, but yes, she knows me.”

 

“All right,” he says. He’s never been a college student, but he doesn’t turn down free food.

 

“Tonight at six then!” Martha waves an arm and heads off, and Nod ceases to debate and just picks up MK. MK, the silly creature, sighs and tucks her head against his chest, falling asleep completely.

 

He manages to get them through the hotel door. Harmony’s back on the register, and she jumps up. “Oh my god, is she okay?”

 

“Just tired,” he assures her. He could say something dirty here, see if Harmony finally learned what ‘gigolo’ is, but MK’s asleep, and he wants her to be awake for that. “Can you get the elevator for me?”

 

“Oh yeah, sure.” Harmony rushes ahead, and for good measure, hits floor four. “I hope she feels better!”

 

“After some sleep, she will,” Nod says with a tight smile as the doors close. Holding MK like this isn’t hard—she’s actually really light, and he wonders how much she’s been eating. Tara and Ronin aren’t stingy about food, but you eat weird when you’re grieving.

 

Or maybe she just has a freakishly high metabolism, what with the dancing and all.

 

He manages to get the door open, and when he puts MK on the bed, she curls into the covers without ever opening her eyes. He pulls them over her, before sitting down at the desk and powering up his ancient laptop. When he logs into his email, just to keep an eye on the workload he’ll be facing when he comes back, he finds a message from Ronin, timed this morning.

 

13 August 2013

To: [n.chercheur@mhpd.state.gov](mailto:n.chercheur@mhpd.state.gov)

From: [r.vigile@mhpd.state.gov](mailto:r.vigile@mhpd.state.gov)

Message: [no subject]

 

Nod,

 

We’ve been watching part of the trial; how is she holding up?

 

R.

 

Nod amuses himself with wondering how many times Ronin wrote and rewrote this missive, before settling on that one line. Probably lots.

 

He sends back:

 

13 August 2013

To: [r.vigile@mhpd.state.gov](mailto:r.vigile@mhpd.state.gov)

From: [n.chercheur@mhpd.state.gov](mailto:n.chercheur@mhpd.state.gov)

Message: [oh please]

 

Ronin,

 

She’s doing—not as well as she could be, but better than I expected. She sleeps a lot when she’s not attending the trial, and BTW, Charles Luther is an asshole and if he chokes on his morning coffee, I won’t be sorry. Don’t tell me he’s just doing his job.

 

How’s everyone? Finn still trolling Aisling something fierce?

 

Nod

 

A few minutes later, he gets a little ding.

 

13 August 2013

To: [n.chercheur@mhpd.state.gov](mailto:n.chercheur@mhpd.state.gov)

From: [r.vigile@mhpd.state.gov](mailto:r.vigile@mhpd.state.gov)

Message: Re: [oh please]

 

I find myself in unwilling agreement with you. Don’t let it go to your head.

 

As a brief aside, we did finally find Mable. He went up to his mother's home in Vermont, and upon hearing that Mandrake has been dealt with, has returned. His wife is ecstatic.

 

Finn is still, as you say, ‘trolling Aisling.’ Aisling is becoming more and more confused, and I wonder if that is his aim. I do know that Arya has lost the pool that I know absolutely nothing about. Arya’s furious, but she’s biting her tongue around Aisling and Finn.

 

There has been a new bet made on the end of the week, but the better is anonymous. Put your finely honed mind to the task—who do _you_ think it is?

 

R.

 

Ronin’s only comfortable gossiping about work when he doesn’t have to say a word. Nod laughs quietly, checking on MK—she’s still asleep, and he writes out his reply.

 

[snip]

 

Ronin,

 

That's good to know about Mable. Thanks for telling me. 

 

Aw, damnit. If Arya lost, then that means I did too.

 

Mystery bettor, huh? If I correctly guess who it is, do I get a prize?

 

Nod

 

[snip]

 

Nod,

 

You get my respect.

 

R.

 

[snip]

 

Ronin,

 

Hm, not good enough. Try again?

 

Nod

 

[snip]

 

Nod,

 

...fine. You can get my next share of Tara’s punch.

 

R.

 

[snip]

 

Ronin,

 

Deal. Okay, I think it’s Finn.

 

Nod.

 

[snip]

 

Nod,

 

Finn? Really?

 

R.

 

[snip]

 

Ronin,

 

Yeah. Finn’s been acting strange around Aisling for the last week or so—even MK picked up on it. Finn’s the only one who can actually change things, and given that the pool’s been going on for _years_ , the money’s kinda sizeable. Arya’s got that rule that the bet-tee can’t bet on themselves, but she does allow for anonymous betting.

 

(BTW, no, I did _not_ bet on me and MK. Also, you should tell Arya that she still hasn’t won. She’ll know what I mean).

 

Nod

 

[snip]

 

Nod,

 

...huh. I will keep you apprised of further developments.

 

R.

 

Nod smothers a louder chuckle in his hand as he powers down his laptop. It’s nearing 5:30, and MK’s starting to wake up. She groans, rolling over toward him. “Ugh, where was the truck that hit me?”

 

“In the courtroom, I think,” Nod says dryly. “Does Martha Camejo sound familiar?”

 

“Yeah—she was my mother’s best friend,” MK yawns, sitting up.

 

“Well, she invited us to dinner,” he tells her, putting his computer away.

 

“Oh, that should be good,” MK says, becoming more awake the longer he watches her. “She makes good food. What time do we need to be there?”

 

He checks his watch. “In about twenty minutes.”

 

“Lemme just brush my hair,” she says, sliding out of bed and into the bathroom. He puts on his boots, checking the laces, and she comes out of the bathroom, hair floating around her like a mussed halo. The image amuses him—MK in stereotypical angel garb, with messy hair and an askew halo. Affection swells, and he brushes a kiss over her forehead. She blinks. “What was that for?”

 

“You messy angel,” he says, stepping back so she can pull on her own boots.

 

“ _What_?”

 

“Sorry, something that amused me.”

 

She pouts, but he decides to keep the image of her in robes and askew halo to himself for now. He doubts she’d take it in the spirit it was intended. “We should go—we don’t want to keep Martha waiting.”

 

“Lead on,” he says, gesturing. She rolls her eyes at him, and they leave, but before they clear the threshold of the hotel room, he reaches for her hand, and she lets him.

 

Martha’s home is small, but it breathes _home_ the way his mom’s house does, or Tara and Ronin’s does.

 

The way he knows her mom’s house did.

 

Her grip on his hand is the same, but he squeezes her hand anyway, and she squeezes back, as she opens the little gate and they pass through. The garden is small, but it’s blooming, and he sees medicinal and kitchen herbs hidden among the blooms. As he steps into the house, he suddenly gets a sense of _Tara_ , or rather, how he feels around Tara: welcomed, loved, wanted.

 

“Martha’s Pagan too,” MK says quietly. “I hadn’t put it together at first, with Tara and Martha, but among the true Pagans, they’re always welcoming, and they always make you know that you’re valued.”

 

“You sound like you’ve met other Pagans,” he mutters as she rings the doorbell.

 

She wrinkles her nose. “A few. Couple of ‘em were clearly using it to piss off the parental units, and a few were sincere in their intentions but in execution—not so great. I get tired of hearing that if you’re sick, there must be a metaphysical cause. No, maybe I just have a cold because a two year old sneezed on me.”

 

He bites off a laugh as the blue door swings inward. “Come in,” Martha says, gesturing. MK steps in, letting go of his hand to wrap her arms around Martha. Martha hugs her back. “Oh, my sweet child,” Martha murmurs, rocking back and forth.

 

MK doesn’t look like she’s crying, but it’s a near thing. Nod quietly closes the door, moving past the two women to head into the kitchen. If MK’s going to cry, she should have some privacy.

 

\--That was his intent, but as he moves past them, MK reaches out and grabs his shoulder. He pauses, and MK lets go of Martha. “Martha, this is Nod,” MK says, her voice wavering with repressed emotion. “He’s a police officer in Moonhaven, and my Significant Other for this trip.”

 

Martha shakes his hand, and her smile unsettles him. “You must be very special indeed,” she says.

 

MK flushes. “Martha!”

 

“I would have sworn MK wouldn’t go near anyone in law enforcement, but here you are.”

 

“He didn’t leave me much of an option,” MK mutters.

 

Martha shakes her head. “Oh, he did,” and her voice is still warm, but there’s a scolding note in it, too. Nod blinks—is she as perceptive as Tara is? He’d thought it was a Tara thing, but maybe it’s a Pagan thing.

 

“He did,” MK sighs. “Dinner?”

 

“I made osso buco,” Martha says, wrapping an arm around MK and steering her into the friendly yellow kitchen.

 

“My favorite,” MK sighs.

 

“That’s why I made it,” Martha says fondly. “Officer Nod, would it bother you extremely if I set out the wineglasses?”

 

Nod looks at MK. She could use a drink, he admits to himself, and he says, “Why not?”

 

MK grins, “Moscato champagne?”

 

“It doesn’t entirely go with the meal, but since it’s your favorite, I’ll let it slide.”

 

He wonders if this was who MK was— _before_ , this mischievous, grinning pixie. He wonders if she would have had time for him—he for her.

 

We’re different people now, he thinks as he slides into a sensible wooden chair, watching Martha and MK banter back and forth as Martha dishes out osso buco and MK pours the wine. She was changed forevermore by what she witnessed, and he was changed by her.

 

He knows that now. It was so gradual, but he thinks back to who he was, those weeks ago, and he wants to say to that Nod—you had no idea. You had no idea how much you would willingly knot yourself into that short, angry girl, until you don’t know where you end and she begins.

 

And she’s still short, but she’s not so angry anymore, and he knows that part of that is him.

 

He thinks back on the ring his mother gave him, and it’s early—he knows it’s early—but barring extreme circumstance, he wants her in his life, and he wants to be hers.

 

Martha catches his eye and winks.

 

“Have you ever had osso buco?” MK asks as she sits down, uncorking the champagne and pouring it into his glass. He personally doesn’t care for bubbly, but he’ll drink a little bit of it to be polite.

 

“No, what is it?”

 

“A kind of stew,” Martha says, putting a steaming plate of brown stew over white rice in front of him. “Usually made with veal, but I make it with stew beef. It’s Portuguese in origin. It’s got plenty of vegetables in it, and served over rice or noodles. I prefer rice, because that’s how my mother served it, and hers.”

 

He peers at her. “You’re not Portuguese.”

 

Martha shakes her head. “No, Angolan. My people were conquered by the Portuguese, but this is one of the few good memories I have related to that, and I keep it.”

 

“Sometimes you have to make memories like that for yourself,” MK says, taking a sip of champagne.

 

Martha toasts her. “Indeed. So, Officer Nod, do you have a last name?”

 

“Chercheur.”

 

“Ah. French, for ‘seeker.’ Are you secretly attending Hogwarts?”

 

He chokes back a laugh. “No, sadly not. My family _is_ French, via Montreal and Quebec. My family, the Sylva family, and the Zerfall family are the founding families of Moonhaven. Tara’s the last member of the Sylva family, the Zerfall family is...gone, and I have a cousin, but she doesn’t have my last name.”

 

“So the next generation is apt to change those names,” Martha observes as he eats a bite of osso buco. It is _very_ good—not his favorite, but still good. “That should make things interesting.”

 

“Well, we had the Crawleys for a while, and then the last lady Crawley married a Radcliffe, and here we are,” Nod says, smiling at MK, who blinks. “Your grandmother Lyse was a Crawley before she married Anton Radcliffe, so technically you come from a founding family.”

 

“Ooh goody,” MK says with a straight face. Her eyes are dancing, so he knows she’s amused.

 

“Should I be worried you know her genealogy so well?” Martha asks, the corner of her mouth quirking in a smile.

 

“Blame my grandfather,” Nod makes a face. “He insisted on going over the genealogies every time I went over to his house when I was little. It wasn’t until MK said Grandma Lyse that I put it together.”

 

“Oh, you poor child,” Martha says, jokingly condescending. MK laughs, sipping some more champagne.

 

Nod shakes his head, sipping his own champagne. He’s taken aback by the taste—it’s sweeter than the other champagnes he’s tried. He takes a bigger sip and almost misses Martha asking, “So, what are your plans after you turn eighteen?”

 

MK drags her spoon through her stew. “Well, I’m not living with Dad, I’m living with the mayor and her husband.”

 

Martha nods briskly. “I didn’t think it would last, to be honest. He’s too devoted to his own interests. The mayor, huh?”

 

“Tara Sylva?”

 

“Ah. Go on.”

 

“I’ve got an audition lined up with the Tisch School,” MK lists, “and I’m not heading to NYU until next year. I’ve got a job in a bookshop--.”

 

“Which suits you very well,” Martha says.

 

“Yeah it does,” Nod agrees.

 

MK glares at them both. “Anyway. And I have a practice space, and, well, there were shenanigans involved with the town drug lord and--.”

 

Martha holds up a hand. “Pardon me. _Shenanigans?_ ”

 

“Um, well...” MK explains in a rush, and Nod watches Martha’s eyebrows travel higher and higher up her forehead until MK gets to Mandrake’s death.

 

“Go back. This man threatened to kill you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“All right, go on.”

 

MK finishes up the story, and Martha’s facial expression promises retribution. “It’s a good thing that man is dead,” Martha says furiously. “Anna told me a little about him, but if he was still alive...”

 

“Martha, you swore a vow to respect life,” MK reminds her, “after—that whole thing.”

 

Martha’s tension drains from her shoulders. “I’ve paid for that many times,” she reminds MK, “and you’re too young to sound like your mother.” She sighs. “So, tell me, is my reading of the situation correct and your time spent here over and done with after the trial wraps up?”

 

“Yeah, that’s probably fair. Do you think I should come back?”

 

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Martha says, finishing up the last of her osso buco. “What matters is what’s right for you.”

 

“You can never give me a straight answer,” MK mutters.

 

“No, I can’t,” Martha says with a grin. “Now, you know where I keep my cards. Bring them out here while your boy and I do the dishes, and I’ll read for you before you go.”

 

“You don’t have to do that,” MK says, but she’s wavering.

 

Martha flicks her fingers. “Go.”

 

MK goes.

 

“Come on, Significant Other,” Martha orders, “the dishes won’t do themselves.”

 

He follows her, holding MK’s plate and his. “What was your past with that whole vow thing?”

 

“I took a life,” Martha says flatly, “to protect someone else’s. I’ve regretted it ever since, and that’s all you get on the subject. Now, tell me—how has she _really_ been doing? I’ve been reading her all evening, and her emotional state does not line up with what she’s told me.”

 

“She seems more settled, since the whole thing with Mandrake,” he offers, starting to rinse off the dishes. A couple of rice grains are stubborn, so he grabs the bottle of lemon dish soap and applies it with a scrub. “I don’t know what I expected, but it’s like it set the floor back in her reality.”

 

“I do know that she hated that she was made into a victim, and from what it sounds like, she was not, in that confrontation,” Martha makes a considering noise in the back of her throat. “When she left—her energy,” she makes a frustrated noise. “I don’t know how to explain it without resorting to metaphysics.”

 

“Feel free, you just might need to explain a few things.”

 

“All right,” Martha takes a deep breath, taking a plate from Nod and drying it. “Everyone has their own electromagnetic field, from the currents that make up the body, yes? And that field vibrates. Where it drifts into metaphysics is that there is meaning behind the vibration and the pitch of the vibration. MK’s energy was fairly stable, as was Anna’s, prior to Anna’s murder. After the murder, MK’s energy was unbalanced, extremely so, and she couldn’t find her footing again. Now, it’s still unbalanced, but it’s in the process of balancing itself. That, I believe, is your influence.”

 

“How?”

 

“Your field and hers are—they meld well. Your field vibrates a little differently than hers, but her field went from _very_ unbalanced to more balanced, and slowly you both are adjusting your fields. By the time you’re done, they will vibrate on the same level, and you will be harmonious. You’re the first I’ve seen her react this well to.”

 

“You knew her other boyfriends?”

 

“I did,” Martha acknowledges, drying the second plate. Her eyes flick to the ceiling for a moment, and her lips curve with good humor. “What are your questions?”

 

“I—well, I’ve been thinking--.”

 

“I know what you’ve been thinking,” Martha interrupts. “What is your question?”

 

“Could she have settled down with any of her exes?”

 

“I think the one she could have been happiest with was Chase,” Martha says slowly, “had time and age not been a consideration. They would have had a quiet courtship, and an equally quiet marriage, but she would have been content, not happy. Karl was—not for her. Michael—they were friends first who decided to take a chance, but they both knew it would not last, so they didn’t try to make it so. He wasn’t available for prom, and her mother was murdered the weekend after, so they were already on shaky ground.”

 

“Why would she have been content?”

 

“MK—and Anna as well—are what I consider gamechangers. By virtue of their existence, they change up known parameters and flip the balance. Your mayor is likely one as well. Gamechangers aren’t happy with contentedness. They go big or they go home.” Martha nudges him. “She’s happy with you.”

 

“We’ve had our issues,” he says ruefully.

 

“And likely will,” Martha agrees. “MK is still struggling to learn how to tell someone when she is upset with them, and you are still reckless, but you’re both a work in progress.” She finishes up drying the last plate, and she puts them away. “Did you find the cards okay?”

 

“They weren’t in their usual place, but yeah, I found them.” MK comes down the stairs. “Did you get a new set since I’ve been away?”

 

“They’re my personal deck—did you touch them?”

 

“I saw the black silk bag and stayed away. I’m not a complete idiot.”

 

“Thank you,” Martha says, smiling. “Nod, sit down next to her, and shuffle half of the deck.”

 

“You’ve never offered a couple’s reading to me,” MK says, startled.

 

“I like him more than I like your previous liaisons. Go on—spread the cloth over the table.”

 

There’s a purple cloth tucked under MK’s arm, and she spreads it over the small kitchen table, before putting down a beaten silver box on it. Martha settles in as MK and Nod sit down, their knees brushing against each other. “Take the deck out of the box and halve it—shuffle each half, before swapping. Do that three times—just make sure you shuffle and handle each card in the deck,” Martha directs.

 

Nod raises an eyebrow but does what he’s told. After they shuffle, Martha orders them to lay out the cards in a continuous line, and they pick out an individual card, laying them flat. She hums. “Nod, the Fool—happy-go-lucky, unaware of the consequences, reckless, the life of the party but not someone you’d trust to pick up the phone when you needed to get home from jail. You weren’t going anywhere in particular; you were just content to _be_. That’s who you were, before your lives intersected.

 

“MK, the Tower—catastrophe that you couldn’t see coming. A sudden bolt of lightning or spell of misfortune—your mother’s murder. You couldn’t plan for it, and it was such a drastic change you weren’t sure who you were in the aftermath.” Martha selects a card and flips it over. “Knight of Swords—a fire card. That’s how you met—Nod, the fiery youth, and MK reacting to that passion. It didn’t go well, I’m assuming. The Tower and the Knight’s energies do not mesh.”

 

“No,” MK confirms. “I was mad.”

 

“Nod, pick the next card.” He does so, and he sees a man, crowned, surrounded by cups. Martha hums again. “King of Cups. A soft-spoken, gentle man who can nonetheless bring the steel when he wants it. He is your mentor, your guide. He tells you what is wise and what is not, but you were still the Fool, so you didn’t listen.”

 

That sounds remarkably like Ronin, except for the gentle part. Well, he amends, Ronin _can_ be gentle, like how he is with Tara, Cara, and MK.

 

“MK, your turn.” When MK turns it over, he sees a woman garbed in green. “The Empress—a fertile woman (the Empress card often denotes fertility), who is wise and kind. This card also includes acts of creativity and encourages you to listen to your better angels.”

 

Yep. Sounds like Tara.

 

Martha selects the next card, and he sees two silver cups, overflowing. “Two of cups. Companionship, friendship, a new beginning—this would be the turning point, where Nod ceases to play the Fool, and MK’s story starts to turn from the catastrophe of the Tower. Likely a moment you shared where you felt open and honest with each other, beyond the initial understanding of the situation at play.”

 

Honestly, there are a couple of things that would fit that bill, but he settles on him comforting MK after her panic attack that first time he tried to take her to dinner.

 

The next card Martha picks up shows a blindfolded woman standing in a circle of swords. “Seven of swords. You created problems, or willingly misunderstood. Since this was created conflict, you could solve it on your own.”

 

Nod holds in his snort as MK kicks his ankle lightly. Sounds familiar, all right.

 

“Both of you, pick a card and turn it over.”

 

Nod’s card shows a young man on a horse, with gold discs around him. “Knight of Pentacles. A more knowledgeable young man, more reliable and responsible—he’s more grounded. Pentacles is the Earth suite, and it means you’ve found what you’ve been looking for. The Fool is on a journey to gain wisdom, and you’ve found what suits you.” MK’s card depicts a shining speck above a hill, and Martha’s face creases with a smile. “The Star—you feel hope for the first time in a long time. Things are looking up, and you feel comfortable wishing for and wanting things again. The Star represents our yearn for happiness and good news, and it’s one of the best things you could have going for you, after the uncertainty of the Tower.”

 

“So where to?” MK asks, raising her eyebrows.

 

Martha laughs, withdrawing four more cards. The first one she flips over, and it shows a set of scales. “Judgment. You’re looking for justice after a terrible wrong, and it also signifies balance—balance between the two of you. You’re in a good place right now, despite the circumstances.” She flips over the next three cards, and one shows a wheel, the next a single cup glimmering with overflowing water, and the third shows a tree. “The wheel—turn of fortune, what goes up must come down. It means that a choice is approaching, but the choice isn’t decided in one moment and it sticks. It’s a choice you will have to make again and again and again.  However, if you continue to make the same choice, it will lead you to the Ace of Cups—good fortune, companionship, fertility. The shared cup was a way to finalize relationships. If you don’t make the same choice, both of you will go your separate ways into the World Tree, having gained wisdom from your experience, but ultimately accomplishing different things.”

 

He holds on MK’s hand underneath the table, and she returns it. “In either scenario,” Martha says, smiling, “you will both end up relatively content at the very least.”

 

“And of course you won’t recommend anything.”

 

Martha shrugs. “Both of you remain in transition. Who you are by the end may be very different from the people you are now. What works for this moment may not work for the next. Like I said—it’s a choice you’ll have to keep making.” She gets up, and they copy her. “I’ll be at the verdict, my dear,” she says, kissing MK’s cheek, “but I’ve tried to avoid being at the trial, for obvious reasons.”

 

“Keep your vow,” MK tells her.

 

Martha rolls her eyes. “Yes, _Mother_.”

 

As they start to walk down the street after exiting her home, Nod wraps an arm around her, and she wraps an arm around him in response. “That was interesting,” he comments in her ear.

 

“When I turned fourteen, she started giving me yearly readings as my birthday present,” MK says. “She usually turned out to be right. You know that some psychologists will use the Tarot as a method of discerning a message from their patient’s subconscious?”

 

“No, I didn’t know that.”

 

“I thought it was cool. Hey, on Thursday, I was thinking about going to the storage facility and picking up my mother’s journals. You up for it?”

 

“I knew you only wanted me for my body,” he says dramatically as they enter the lobby of the Rose and Thorn.

 

She leans up and kisses his cheek. “Obviously.”

 

\--

 

“Boss?” Arya knocks on his door, and her face is pale. The skin around her eyes is red and puffy, and she clutches a khaki folder in one of her hands. “I have that report from the listening devices.”

 

She’s been tracking down the fingerprints and trying to figure out the timeline of when they would have been placed, according to their date of manufacture. They have security cameras placed everywhere and have since he became Chief (‘who guards the guards indeed’), and it’s been Arya’s ongoing project for the last few weeks to figure out how Dagda got in.

 

“Come in,” he tells her, and she shuts the door behind her, sliding the report along his desk.

 

“You only have a few people who have the key to your office,” she says awkwardly, perching on the edge of a chair as he starts to scan through the report’s contents. “You, Annalise, and Finn. When I checked your lock, I didn’t see scrapings that meant someone had picked it, so it had to be someone who had the lock. You I could rule out, and I double-checked both Finn and Annalise. Normally, I wouldn’t have even thought to be suspicious of them, but—I can’t afford to make mistakes.”

 

He pauses on the last page. “You’re sure?”

 

Arya nods. “I’ve got a contact with the FBI who double-checked my work. She confirmed.”

 

He sighs. “Please get me Annalise.”

 

Arya gets up and goes out. He hears her mutter, and Annalise comes to the door. “Please close the door,” he says, steepling his fingers.

 

She sits down after doing so.

 

“How long did Mandrake own you?”

 

Annalise’s mouth quivers. “About ten years,” she says, looking down. “My son got into some trouble with him, and fled the country. Mandrake came knocking at my door a few days after that, said basically he could send someone to retrieve Joseph, or I can work off his debt. I knew that he meant ‘murder’ when he said retrieve, and—he’s my son. At first he didn’t ask for anything, and I started to wonder if he’d forgotten. When you became Chief, he demanded that I let in Dagda and some of his thugs to your office, and after the third time, he told me that Joseph’s debt was paid, and my son could come home. I hated him, and I did everything I could to help you bring him down, but—my son’s home now in fairly good shape.”

 

“What you did was illegal,” Ronin reminds her quietly.

 

“I know,” she says softly.

 

He could charge her—he has the legal grounds to do so. He should. But Joseph came back from Brazil with a daughter, and Joseph has issues getting by. He and his daughter are entirely dependent on Annalise’s paycheck.

 

He couldn’t trust her again.

 

“You’re going to resign,” he tells her. “I will write you a reference, but not a glowing one. You are never to work in the public sphere again. If I hear that someone has approached you to do similar work, I will charge you, no questions asked.”

 

“What?”

 

“If I arrest you, when you’re convicted, it’s likely Joseph would lose custody of his daughter, and she’d be made a ward of the state. The foster care system, particularly for older children, is heinous. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. So I’m not going to arrest you—I’m going to bury this report, and you’re going to resign. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes,” Annalise says, eyes wide.

 

It’s wrong—he knows this is wrong. Where his duty to the people of Moonhaven and his duty of the law reside, he’s absolutely in the wrong.

 

But he knows Joseph has had issues holding down a steady job. He also suspects Joseph is an alcoholic, and Annalise is raising her grandchild. Morally speaking, he can’t do this.

 

This is a decision he will look back and constantly remind himself what he should have done, but he steels himself for it anyway. “Now go. I want you officially resigned by this evening.”

 

Annalise goes, leaving the door open. He gets up, because he needs to tell Arya to bury this. Consternation is already churning his stomach, and he won’t be able to eat much when he gets off in about an hour. He’s halfway out of his office when he sees Finn approach Aisling, touching her elbow carefully to get her attention.

 

She peers at him, clearly confused, and—yes, she’s aggravated too. While he’s been cloistered in his office, he _does_ know that Finn’s been intentionally aggravating her. It’s small things, otherwise he’d step in, but now he stands and watches carefully as Finn continues to hold onto her elbow. He’s saying something quietly—Ronin can’t pick it up—and Aisling’s face relaxes from the aggravation but she looks more and more confused.

 

Ronin spots Arya coming up from the elevator, and that’s when Finn leans in and kisses her.

 

Aisling freezes completely as the room bursts into applause, and she finally gets him to release her elbow and she rips away from him, red spots high on her cheekbones and her chest heaving with—panic and upset.

 

Ronin frowns. Something more is going on here. Her hand twitches like she wants to slap him, but she’s acutely aware of the audience. Finn frowns, murmuring something to her. Her reply is heated but also quiet, and Finn’s face creases in understanding. He murmurs something again, and Aisling stiffens, before he offers something. They step out, and Ronin looks at Arya.

 

Arya’s expression is petulant as he crosses over to her and the room settles down, everyone back to their usual tasks. He’ll be out of here in an hour—he just needs to settle a few things. “What are you going to do?” Arya asks, cutting her eyes toward Annalise, who’s typing something out. She looks betrayed and vengeful, and she can be inventive.

 

“I want you to bury it.”

 

“What--! But she--.”

 

“I know, but she has a family to support.”

 

“And if this was one of the Boggans? Would you let _them_ slide?”

 

Ronin sighs. “No. But I’ve noted how priorities change, when your children are involved.”

 

“So, what, you’re just going to _forgive_ her and we’ll all go our merry ways?”

 

“No. I’ve insisted she resign, and I will give her an ambivalent reference, and she is never to work in a public sphere ever again. Her family is dependent on her income, and I have no doubts what would happen to them, so yes, you’re right, I wouldn’t let a Boggan slide on this, but Annalise didn’t choose that life. What she did was wrong and absolutely illegal, but she was a mother who wanted her son to come home.”

 

Arya looks at him. “You wouldn’t have let her slide before your daughter was born.” Her voice is soft, but it’s still an accusation.

 

“Yes,” he agrees, “but I have my daughter now. It changes things.”

 

Arya’s mouth tightens with unhappiness. “I’m going to keep a hold of it.”

 

“Do. But don’t make it accessible to anyone else,” he hesitates. “Please, Arya.”

 

She sighs. “Fine.”

 

Finn comes back in, tugging Aisling behind him. She looks pleased, with a slight smile softening her face. “We have an announcement to make,” he says to the room at the large. “We are now dating. I will accept congratulations in the form of food, money, and clothes.”

 

“Finn,” Aisling murmurs.

 

“Fine. _We_ will accept congratulations in the form of food, money, and clothes.”

 

Ronin hides a smile as he heads back into his office. Maybe he can slip away early.

 

Tara’s thrilled when he tells her, and she gives him Cara while she puts together a quick dinner of salad with chicken. “I told you,” she sings out, “ _I_ told you.”

 

“Yes you did,” he says, cupping Cara’s small head with his palm. She gurgles at him, smiling, and he’s surprised to see that her eyes are staying blue, but they’re a darker blue than his. The longer tuft of hair on her head is dark, and he thinks she has Tara’s facial structure as well.

 

She will be stunning, when she is older, but he holds her close and chooses to cherish these moments now. He can plot what to do to potential Significant Others later.

 

\--

 

_24 February 1998_

_I enrolled Mary Katherine in Maggie’s dance school today. She’s almost three and the youngest one in class, but she has the gift, Maggie tells me. She has a sense of rhythm and movement, but then, I didn’t need Maggie to tell me that. Mary Katherine danced before she walked._

_Maggie wants Bomba and I over for dinner, and I’m running out of excuses not to. Bomba’s so oblivious to anything that isn’t about bats, and he wouldn’t pick up Mandrake’s subtle digs at him. And I like Maggie, I’m perfectly happy having lunch with her, but I do_ not _care for her husband or her son._

_I honestly don’t know what she sees in him to the point she’d have his children._

_Bomba’s out on a trip, leaving Mary Katherine and I alone for dinner tonight and tomorrow. I’m trying to figure out what we’d both like—perhaps chicken and peas, with mashed potatoes._

_3 March 1998_

_Bomba’s returned triumphant, with new specimens and plenty of bat scat to study. He wanted to dissect it in the kitchen before I decreed no studying of shit in the place we prepare food. He wasn’t pleased, and we argued about it for the greater part of an hour. His entire argument revolved around that the kitchen has the best light._

_I pointed out that bats are vectors for rabies, and I won’t risk that around Mary Katherine._

_Maggie managed to cajole me into just Mary Katherine and me for dinner in two days. Bomba’s going to a science department dinner, and I declined to be his plus one. Mary Katherine and Dagda playing together? A recipe for disaster._

_I’m not looking forward to it, but I have to interact with the community in a positive way, and that means making nice with Mandrake, who makes my skin creep._

_I just wish Bomba wouldn’t act so surprised when I mention that. Of course,_ he _wouldn’t be creeped out if Mandrake snuck up behind him and bit him._

_5 March 1998_

_I had lunch with Tara today, as a pre-reward for dinner tonight. She really is very fascinating, and we had an interesting discussion on faith. She has it too, just—not for my God. She’s one of the most welcoming people I’ve met in town to date, and she doesn’t hate Bomba, which is a plus._

_Dinner...was awful._

_For starters, I don’t eat pork. Haven’t in years. Maggie made some sort of sausage dish (apparently Mandrake’s family was originally German? I’m not a historian) that’s from Munich or something, and I couldn’t eat any of it._

_Mary Katherine ate it right up, of course. I don’t mind my daughter eating pork, but if I eat pork, I’ll get sick._

_Also, Dagda kept following her around, taunting her. She was trying to get away, to the point of climbing onto my lap, but Mandrake_ laughed _and said that Dagda should be congratulated for his persistence._

_I retorted that no, he should not—my daughter was trying to get away._

_Maggie intervened then, saying that Dagda should respect a ‘no’ when he gets one._

_I_ hate _him. And he’s determined to ensure we have a positive professional relationship on the board of the church, so he keeps wanting to ‘talk,’ every time we bump into each other._

_I want to move._

_7 March 1998_

_There’s no preschool, and I need to go back to the city for work. I’ve got a job interview with Penguin Books in two weeks, and I might look into preschool options there. It would be difficult—and expensive—but Bomba’s not going to be around during the day, since he’ll be at the university._

_And I am_ not _letting him take her to work with him. I’d find her smeared with bat scat, playing with the intestines of some poor dead creature when I came home, and he’d be right there with her. I love him, he’s my husband, but he is not good around our child._

_I remember how we used to be, before Mary Katherine was born. He wasn’t so intent on his research then, and we had time for dancing and good humor and wine._

_But it’s like as soon as Mary Katherine was born, he decided that his research became more important, and I was the only one to get up with her at night, to change her diapers, to sing to her, because he was constantly in the forest or analyzing what he took back home._

_He doesn’t want me to take her to the city for preschool, but it’s not like there’s a facility here in Moonhaven for it. We keep arguing about it—even Lyse has called and stuck in her oar. Mary Katherine’s got a year before kindergarten. She needs to be in preschool._

_13 March 1998_

_Tara put me in contact with the man who runs the history museum—Nim Galuu (strange name). He also runs the local bookshop, and he worked it out with Maggie to offer a preschool and after-care. It will be cheaper than anything offered in the city, and it’ll get Mary Katherine out of the house and with children her own age._

_She already knows how to read—sometimes I wonder when she learned to read, and I realize I taught her. Sometimes—when Bomba and I have exhausted ourselves arguing—I look at our little girl and feel like she’s the only good thing in my life._

_The interview went well—I’m expecting a call for a second interview. I have high hopes. I need to get out of town; I can’t build my life here. Small towns are great to raise your kids, but this is not the place for my roots._

_If I get the job—perhaps I’ll get an apartment in the city, and come home for the weekend. But I won’t leave Mary Katherine with Bomba._

_Pastor Newlin keeps telling me that my place is with my husband, but I feel that God is leading me elsewhere._

_I came home from a day at the church to find Mary Katherine sitting on the floor, crying. When I asked her what was wrong, she said her tummy hurt, and when I asked her a few more questions, I realized she hadn’t eaten since I fixed her eggs that morning._

_Bomba had spent the day out in the forest. He locked the doors so she wouldn’t follow him out—that_ one _responsible act—but it also meant he wasn’t paying attention to what she needed._

_He left her alone all day._

_She’s almost_ three _._

_We argued for a long time, but—I think that’s the last time. I need to talk to Lyse—if he continues, while I’m in talks with Penguin, I’ll send Mary Katherine up to her._

_He promises to be better. I just don’t know if I can trust him._

_21 March 1998_

_Mary Katherine clocked Dagda over the head with a play telephone today._

_I’m not entirely sure if I should be proud or angry._

_Apparently he was continuing his trend of following her around and taunting her, and the teacher—a Ms. Fleur—tried to stop him multiple times, but he refused to listen, and Mary Katherine kept telling him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen, so finally she picked up a Fisher-Price toy telephone and clocked him over the head._

_Of course, he immediately started to cry, but Ms. Fleur confided to me that she only gave Mary Katherine a five minute time out—she told him to stop, and he did not, so she defended herself._

_It just so happened that Mandrake arrived to pick up Dagda at the same time I did—what does he do for a living, anyway?—and Ms. Fleur told the both of us at the same time._

_I...do not like how Mandrake’s face changed. He looked at my daughter in a cold, calculating manner, before he seemed satisfied and patted her on the head, murmuring what a strong character she’ll be._

_I wouldn’t put it past him to try to manipulate circumstances to—oh, God, I don’t know. He’s been trying to push Dagda and Mary Katherine together for the longest time, and they’re too young now to be anything other than friends, but with that level of manipulation, it would not surprise me if he attempted to make them more than that years down the road._

_I do not know why he is fixated on my daughter. He is a threat to her, but I don’t know why._

_29 March 1998_

_I met Tara’s young man today, while she and I had coffee. He’s a detective, and he was with his partner (he introduced himself as Jaeger Chercheur), and we invited them to share a coffee with us._

_His name is Ronin Vigile. He’s quiet—content to let Jaeger and Tara rule the conversation—but the way he looks at Tara cannot be denied._

_It’s how Bomba used to look at me._

_They orient themselves to each other, framing each other unconsciously. It was sweet, and I wonder when they’re getting married. There’s no engagement ring, but then, Tara does not strike me as the sort to be comfortable with one._

_Tara listened to my grievances, before asking if Pastor Newlin has provided any guidance on this matter. He has not. He keeps reiterating to me that God hates divorce, but—I have to do right by my child._

_My husband will not._

_I flat-out told Bomba I want to leave town, because I do not feel Mary Katherine is safe here, but he pointed out that this is one of the few locations where he can study bats in their natural habitat_ and _teach at the university. That may be true, but I asked, what is more important, your daughter or your career?_

_He couldn’t answer me._

_We screamed about it for another hour—he thinks I’m making a mountain out of molehill, because to him, Mandrake is an absolute gentleman! Why do I think he means Mary Katherine harm? It’s just those city instincts—this is a small town, how much trouble can there be here?_

_Please, God, send me guidance._

_4 April 1998_

_I got the job!_

_9 April 1998_

_That’s it. I’m done. I’m filing divorce papers. My car’s already packed up, I’ve said my goodbyes to Tara and Maggie and Nim, and Mary Katherine and I are leaving._

_10 April 1998_

_I came home three days ago from lunch with Maggie to find Bomba dissecting a hoary bat in the kitchen. Mary Katherine was seated on the floor, eating cookies—off the floor. He couldn’t be bothered to put them on a plate._

_The whole place smelled of formaldehyde._

_He uses formaldehyde—a known carcinogen!—in the same room where his daughter, a_ toddler _, plays._

_He has no concept of her safety._

_Divorce papers have been filed. I expect full custody. I have no desire for alimony or child’s support (Penguin’s starting salary is almost triple what he’s being paid at the moment), and Lyse has made it clear that she supports me on this._

_I don’t know why he changed, and I’m afraid to find out. I need to do what’s best for my daughter, Pastor Newlin and theology be damned._

_I’m doing the right thing for me and for my daughter. Mary Katherine’s the best thing about my life, and I’m not about to risk her to something that I can stop._

_Period._

\--

 

MK puts away her mother’s journal, feeling queasy. Next to her on the bed, Nod’s asleep, _Pride and Prejudice_ still in his hand. She puts a bookmark in, marking his page, before putting on his side table. The fact that she’s leaning against him doesn’t hurt.

 

Tomorrow’s the verdict. The jury heard closing arguments yesterday, and she’s not sure—no, that’s not right. She’s more than certain they’ll convict—Agent Starling was graceful under fire, but once they convict, this dreadful chapter to her life will be closed.

 

Where will she be? Her mother is still dead, and she’s still without a father.

 

“You’re thinking too much,” Nod says sleepily, reaching out to put a hand on her thigh. “Turn out the light and go to bed.”

 

“Is that your recommendation?”

 

“Yes,” he says, opening his eyes slightly. His brown eyes are muddled and dazed, but they become more clear the longer he looks at her. “There’s nothing sleep can’t solve, c’mon babe.”

 

She giggles slightly, putting aside her mother’s journal and turning out the light. As she settles in, she kisses his cheek. “Just because you asked nicely.”

 

“Damn right I did,” he says, turning toward her and throwing an arm over her waist. She snuggles into him, and yes, tomorrow one chapter will be over. But doors have a way of opening again.

 

The next morning, they sit together in court, she all in black, and he’s matching her. The Strangler is frog-marched in, and then the jury files in, and the judge asks, “Have you come a decision?”

 

“We have, Your Honor.”

 

“On the charges of four murders in the first degree, how do you find the defendant?”

 

“Guilty, Your Honor.”

 

“On the charges of home invasion...”

 

Guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty.

 

She sags against Nod as he wraps an arm around her shoulders. The judge looks at the Strangler with dislike, and MK remembers from somewhere that judges in New York try to get as many cases pled out as possible, to save the state money in prosecution, and when a defendant refuses and is found guilty, the judge usually gives them very harsh penalties.

 

He won’t be able to harm any more women.

 

The last part of the trial goes by in a blur, because she’s too busy leaning against Nod and trying not to shake too much. He’s guilty. Her mother gets justice.

 

The Strangler gets shuffled off, to await sentencing, and she takes this moment to go commiserate with the parents of the other victims. They spend a moment, hugging and crying with each other, before going their separate ways. Underneath her shirt, her mother’s favorite clear crystal pendant swings, and she wonders if her mother’s spirit can find peace now.

 

“Come on, let’s get lunch,” Nod says from behind her. She turns to him, grabbing his hand.

 

“No, there’s somewhere we should go first.”

 

He looks at her, but he follows.

 

She doesn’t remember much of the walk out of the courthouse to the cemetery. She doesn’t even remember much of the sentencing beyond the first ‘guilty.’ Her mind is in a strange, fractured place, and it feels like the only thing anchoring her is Nod’s hand in hers and the crystal pendent lightly bouncing against her chest.

 

The wind’s picking up, and she wants to ask if the weather could _be_ any more symbolic. Winds equal change. She knows this.

 

Yet it still remains true.

 

They get to her mother’s grave, and she stands away from Nod to rub her arm. “Mom, this is Nod.”

 

“I wish it was under better circumstances,” Nod says soberly.

 

The wind winds around the two of them, and it’s cool against the heat of the day. “He was found guilty, Mom. Your killer isn’t a free man.”

 

She’s not sure what else to say, ‘Unto the Lord God I commend your spirit?’ She sighs, turns to Nod. He doesn’t seem certain what to say either, but he does take a step forward and he lifts up her chin, and he kisses her.

 

That contact—chaste lip-on-lip contact—abruptly brings her back to earth. She’s not happy, not by a long shot, but now she has a chance to move on.

 

She kisses him back. “Let’s go back to the hotel,” she murmurs to him, pulling away to catch her breath.

 

Nod’s brows furrow again, and she nods. “I think I’m ready.”

 

He gazes at her. “Are you sure?”

 

She slips her hand into his. “Yes.”

 

He smiles, and she doesn’t think that they’ve ever walked that fast. The wind accompanies them back, and it sounds like a woman laughing in delight.

 

They don’t hurry back to the hotel, but they don’t loiter either. Anticipation thrums under her skin, as well as simple curiosity. She can admit to herself that she’d thought their first time (when she took the time to think about it) would be kind of frantic, but—given what happened today—she’s not sure that’s what going to happen.

 

But she trusts him, so she lets him lead her back.

 

They get to the hotel, bid hello to Harmony (who’s excited about the verdict), before heading up to their room. He opens the door for her, she follows, kicking off her shoes as he closes and locks the door. “How do you want to do this?” she says, hating how uncertain she feels. Sex isn’t new to her—she isn’t a blushing virgin.

 

But she knows enough to know that this will change them. She wants the change.

 

“Shh,” he says, leaning down to kiss her.

 

She winds her arms around his neck as she surges into the kiss. In return, he splays his hands across her hips as he rubs his thumbs right above her hipbones. She whines in response, and he laughs quietly.

 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she says petulantly, pulling back a little.

 

“You too,” he retorts, but there’s a smile tucked away.

 

For their humor, they take their time undressing each other. She strips him of his t-shirt, and she’s a little startled to realize she’s never really had the time to examine his chest. Oops. Well, that can be dealt with.

 

He’s a little scarred, but it looks like run-of-the-mill injuries. She has a couple of scars across her chest too (one of her friend’s cats was spooked once as she was holding him, and he gouged three lines into the area between her boobs. They’re faint, and she wasn’t mad at him (more mad at her friend’s little brother, who did the spooking), but all of Nod’s scars look like that, and not like he made the acquaintance of the wrong side of a knife.

 

One goes up his pectoral onto his shoulder, and at first she traces it with her fingertips (probably pet-related; it’s not a thick enough scar to be human-related), before standing up on her tip-toes and following it with her tongue. He makes a weird noise when she does that, and when she peers up at him through her lashes, still tracing it with the tip of her tongue, she sees he has his eyes closed. His grip on her hips has tightened, and his breathing is heavy.

 

Pleased, she does it again, this time scraping her teeth against it. His noise this time is definitely a groan, and she basks in it, before squeaking when he lets go of her to pull her sweater up and over her head.

 

The sweater’s thick enough that she didn’t bother wearing her customary cami underneath it, and he grins. “Have I mentioned how much I love your breasts?”

 

“You could mention it a little more,” she tells him, and for answer, he picks her up ( _so easily_ —she’s starting to have a kink), moving her to the bed. “Shoes off, you’re not a barbarian,” she criticizes, leaning up on her elbows, and he chokes, before toeing off his combat boots and socks.

 

“Is that better, Your Highness?”

 

“I think I’d prefer Your Serene Majesty,” she muses.

 

He laughs slightly, settling against her as he runs his hands down her sides. She arches slightly—ever since he found her ‘hotspot’ over her hips, she’s dreamed about his hands—and in reply, he kisses the left peak of her breast, before sucking the tip into his mouth.

 

This time, she arches off the bed, but his hands on her hips tighten, pushing her back down again. He swirls his tongue around it, before sucking again. Her hands are in his hair, and she tightens her grip, trying to muffle the moans. He releases that breast with a wet pop! before moving onto the other one and repeating the same treatment.

 

As if that wasn’t enough sensation, his thumbs are working her hips, alternatively pressing and rubbing, and she writhes underneath him as her orgasm starts to build. “Nod—please--.”

 

“What do you need?” he says, taking his mouth off her breast.

 

“Please—I--,” she gasps when he presses his thumbs a little harder than he had before, and she suspects there will be bruises, and that only makes her wetter.

 

“What do you need?” he repeats, smirking.

 

“I need to come!” she says furiously, and if he wasn’t laying between her legs, she’d kick him.

 

“Well, come then,” he says, reapplying his mouth to her very red nipple. He sucks _hard_ , and the wet warm pressure of his mouth sends her over the edge. She arches, her back almost a perfect C off the bed, and he holds her through the shudders.

 

“You ruined your skirt,” he comments when her breathing’s approaching normal.

 

She swats at him. “Laundry. It’s a thing.” She lets her eyes trail down his naked chest where his pants are still buttoned. She can see a thick line where his dick is, and she rubs her knee against it languidly. This time, he gasps, so she does it again.

 

“I really think you should take your pants off,” she remarks.

 

“Condoms,” he says, already unbuttoning.

 

She slides off the bed, and he turns to watch her bend over her bag (okay, it’s a deliberately exaggerated movement), before she brandishes the box of polystyrene condoms triumphantly. He stares at her. “Were you planning this?” There’s a note of sheer wonder in his tone, and she revels in it.

 

“Maybe,” she admits, pulling off her ruined skirt and letting it fall on top of her bag.

 

“I approve,” he tells her, stepping out of his pants and his boxer-briefs. They outlined his thighs nicely, but one orgasm down, she’s ready for another one.

 

She starts to pull off her panties, but he takes a quick step forward, holding onto her hands. “Let me?”

 

“You’re going to make me blush,” she says, watching him pull them down in a kneeling move. When he’s on the floor, and she steps out of them, he stays down.

 

“You said you’d prefer me on my knees, Your Serene Majesty.”

 

Now she _does_ blush. “Later,” she says, trying for aloofness. She fails, if his grin is anything to go by.

 

“All right,” he shrugs, before standing up.

 

She’s naked, he’s naked, and there’s a lot of mutual appreciation going on.

 

Remarkably, she doesn’t feel—uncomfortable. Maybe that’s the difference. She lo-likes him and she trusts him, more than she trusted Michael. He puts her at ease.

 

It makes a difference.

 

Now she just feels confident and sexy, and _she_ leads _him_ to the bed. He follows her willingly enough as she sits down, pulling him to her. “You want me to be on top?” he asks, guessing where this is going.

 

“Just this once,” she deadpans.

 

He laughs again, before gently pushing her down and releasing her hair from its-now messy braid. He’s hovering over her, hands in her hair, but they just stare at each other for a moment. “You know, I heard somewhere if you stare into someone’s eyes and share deeply personal information for like, five minutes, you fall in love with them?”

 

He inhales deeply. “Oh?”

 

“I don’t need that,” she says, running her hands up his chest and down his back.

 

“Why?” his eyes are guarded.

 

It’s now or never time, and she takes her chance. “Because I’m already in love with you.”

 

It’s the right answer, for a number of reasons, and Nod kisses her, still looking at her. It’s more erotic than the typical-closing-of-eyes, and she fumbles for the box of condoms while holding his gaze.

 

He takes the condom she presses into his hand, withdrawing briefly to break open the packaging and slide it on. She takes the time to examine his cock, biting her lip with anticipation. He’s a little bigger than Michael, but not so big she’d run for the hills (guys, big cocks? _No_ ). She’s still wet from her first orgasm, and of course, he’s been hard since she took her shirt off, and he leans over her, sliding in with ease.

 

At first it hurts a little—it’s been a while—but as he starts to move in slow, languid thrusts, she relaxes and it feels better. He keeps massaging her hips as she wraps her legs around his waist, deepening the thrusts. She knows she has a g-spot (Michael discovered it by accident), and the depth to his thrusts mean he hits it every time.

 

She arches, closing her eyes, but he puts a hand on her cheek, and she looks at him. “Look at me, baby girl,” he says, his voice rough. “Please.”

 

She kisses his hand. “Just because you said please.”

 

He groans at the contact, and his hips start to stutter in their rhythm, but he keeps the deepness up. He comes before she does (well, he had longer to be aroused), but he still continues, until her toes curl and she collapses on the bed, chest heaving.

 

He stops moving, rolling to the side. He’s still in her, and in a moment he’ll need to move, take off the condom, but for now, she delights in it.

 

He traces her face with a slightly sweaty hand. “I’m sorry for the circumstances, but I’m glad I met you.”

 

“Is this where we have a sappy declaration of love?”

 

“You beat me to the punch on that,” he says with satisfaction, and she has to kiss him.

 

She doesn’t know whether they’ll be forever, but she’s happy for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is highly likely I will publish a series of oneshots to explain either backstory or moments that I could not fit in here, thanks to POV issues. Finn and Aisling's exchange and ensuing private conversation would be one of them. 
> 
> Just the epilogue left, dear readers!
> 
> And briefly--the trial was never the point of the fic. It was _a_ point, but only so much as to provide closure, the symbolic closing of a chapter. So that's why there wasn't much of the legal proceedings--I always intended for the Strangler to be found guilty, there was never a question of him getting off. 
> 
> And before you ask, yes, a witness' mental state can be allowed to be entered as evidence against their testimony by a judge, but it has to be relevant. Ableism is in fact alive and well in the criminal justice system. *frowns at the United States*


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. This chapter, I took some artistic license. 
> 
> MK goes to work for the New York City Ballet company after graduation. Technically? This wouldn't happen. The NYCB trains their own dancers and doesn't do open auditions. 
> 
> I looked at that, went SCREW IT, because I needed MK in the city as a dancer for a year, doing ballet specifically. So before someone's like "HEY INK" I KNOW.

**EPILOGUE**

_28 August 2019_

MK breathes in deeply as she takes the exit for Moonhaven.  Ronin’s told her where Nod’s going to be today, and she wants to surprise him.

 

There’s a little black box in her pocket. It makes her nervous, so she wants to get this part over with as soon as possible and skip straight to the celebrating.

 

“He’s on stake-out outside of Martin’s Pizza,” Ronin had said, “first assignment as detective on his own. There’s nothing to find, I’m just testing his patience. If you go bother him, he’ll likely be ready for it.”

 

“I’m not going to bother him,” she’d said.

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

She sees him in the police sedan (no markers, but come _on_ , green Crown Victoria? Oh please), and she wonders how to do this. He’s a detective, so as far she knows, he wouldn’t be interested in pulling her over for speeding. He’s never seen her new car (paid for by her contract with the New York City Ballet), so it would be a surprise? But at the same time she doesn’t want to knock on his window.

 

She debates about it for so long he comes to knock on _her_ window, and she remembers that he’s watching the place, so a black car with tinted windows would set off alarm bells. “Hi,” she beams as she rolls down the window.

 

She savors his look of surprise. “Oh my—you’re here. You’re here!”

 

“Move away from the door so I can open it, you goose.” When he takes a stumbling step back, she slides out, straightening her skirt and loose black blouse. The blouse is so full that it hides the pockets of her skirt, and she double-checks to make sure the box is still in her pocket.

 

She’s so nervous, her palms are sweaty. She hope it doesn’t leave streaks on her blouse.

 

Before she can say anything, her breath explodes from her lungs as he hugs her, and her arms wrap around his back, and she presses her face to his neck as he buries his face in her hair.

 

It’s been a year. The last time they saw each other, she was graduating from Tisch with full honors and four offers. She went to the New York City Ballet for a year—working with them and gaining the credentials to open up the Anna Kennedy School of Dance. She even managed to snag two dancers from the ballet company to come teach, so it can be a legitimate school, not just an afterschool extracurricular.

 

She’s missed his arms. Phone calls, email, texts, and IMs are one thing, but physical touch is something else entirely. And he smells like himself—clean, slight hint of boy sweat, and the mint from his toothpaste.

 

God, she’s missed _him_.

 

The nervous butterflies in her stomach smooth away. She’s making the right decision.

 

They managed to last through five years of her schooling and company work, his detective certification, and infrequent personal contact (phone calls are one thing, but she’s gone through five _years_ worth of seeing Nod only a few times a year).

 

If they can last through that, they can last through anything.

 

“Why didn’t you call first?” Nod asks finally, letting go of her a little bit. “I could’ve gotten the day off, welcomed you properly.” His slight smile tells her exactly what he’s thinking of.

 

“Oh, we have plenty of time for that,” she says.

 

“Starting right now,” he says, cupping the nape of her neck and pulling her toward him. His kiss is both strange and familiar—he tastes like coffee and mint. His tongue slips easily past her lips to twine with hers, and she moves her hands up to run his fingers through his hair, knotting her fingers in it. It’s soft and she moans against his mouth, and he presses her against the car, one knee between her legs. She winds one knee loosely around his thigh, leaning back against the car and pulling him down with her.

 

He moves his mouth from hers to lave at her pulse point, and she tightens her grip on his hair as her breath hitches. “Oh god Nod, this isn’t—the place.”

 

“Your neck is still sensitive,” he mutters, scraping his teeth down her neck and she whines. His hand moves up from her waist to trace the underside of her breast, and she arches against the car, panting.

 

“Yeah. Neck still sensitive. Want to—check if I have ten fingers and ten toes, too?”

 

“Keep that up and I’ll arrest you both for public indecency,” Ronin comments.

 

She yelps, pushing Nod away from her and straightening her shirt and skirt. Nod coughs, adjusting his jacket in an incredibly recognizable way, and she blushes. Ronin’s leaning against her car hood, looking as cool as ever in a black suit with a charcoal tie and white shirt. “Nice to see you back in town,” he nods to her.

 

“Nice to see you too,” she says, flustered.

 

“Cara’s looking forward to seeing you,” Ronin remarks.

 

“Are you checking on me?” Nod says, his eyes heating.

 

“I saw you wrapped around a redhead, I got curious.” Ronin eyes her.

 

She wants to die. She came here intending to propose, and instead she gets caught necking with Nod like a teenager that she is no longer. “Um. Nod, there was something I wanted to talk about--.”

 

“Are you still policing my behavior?” Nod complains, ignoring her. “I’m 25!”

 

“Nod,” she snaps. “Let me speak.”

 

Nod shuts up, looking at her. She reaches into her pocket, carefully going down on one knee. Nod’s face is priceless; she hopes Ronin has a picture of it. She pops open the box. “Nod Chercheur, will you marry me?”

 

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

 

She stares at him. “Are you _refusing_ me?”

 

Nod rakes a hand through his hair, before reaching into his suit pocket. He pulls out a small black box of his own. “No, you’ve got to be kidding because I’ve been planning how I’m going to propose for the last six months, since I knew you were wrapping up your contract.”

 

“Well, I’m already down on one knee,” she says cheerfully. “I win.”

 

“I’ve had the ring for years.”

 

She looks up at him in shock. “ _What_?”

 

“I was waiting until you were ready,” he says, running his knuckles down her cheek. “So I deserve a chance to propose.”

 

“I am _already down on one knee_.”

 

“Oh, just exchange rings already,” Ronin sighs. “You’re both inept.”

 

She glances at him, and he has his phone out. “Are you recording this?”

 

“Our colleagues will never believe me,” Ronin says blandly.

 

Nod offers her a hand and takes it, glaring at Ronin. “Yes, I will marry you, you wonderful, impossible woman. Will you marry me?”

 

She leans up and kisses his cheek. “Of course.”

 

“Fantastic,” Ronin says. “Now put on the rings.”

 

“If you’re going to keep on—“

 

“Nod, shut up,” she sighs. “Take the ring.”

 

“What, you’re not going to put it on me?” He grins at her, and she plucks the silver band from its bed of white satin, gesturing for his hand. He lays his left hand in hers, and she winds the band onto his fourth finger, and he takes his hand back to study his ring. “Is that jet?” he asks, referring to the four small stones that stud the band.

 

“No, it’s, ah, black diamond.”

 

He stares at her, and she looks down, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I thought it would suit you more than clear diamond.”

 

“It’s great,” he says, leaning in to kiss her, but Ronin clears his throat behind them. “Something to say?” Nod asks murderously.

 

“Oh, no,” Ronin says airily.

 

MK smothers a laugh in her hand. Ronin’s certainly lightened up since Cara was born. Nod rolls his eyes and takes her hand, and she watches as he takes the ring from his own box, sliding it onto her finger. It’s a perfect fit, and she takes a moment from admiring the square diamond nestled between two smaller round emeralds to say, “Let me guess, you totally used the secret way of determining ring size?”

 

Nod’s grin lights up his whole face. “Pot and kettle.”

 

She looks down, blushing. “Well. Maybe.”

 

“Can I kiss my fiancé?” Nod demands of Ronin, who’s put away his phone.

 

“Yes, but quickly. Tara wants to hear all about it.”

 

“Did you know this was going to happen?” he says.

 

“I, ah, may have asked him to tell me where you were today,” she says.

 

Nod stares at her. “You created a conspiracy to propose?”

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

“You’re amazing and I love you,” he says, grabbing her face and pulling her toward him. They kiss just long enough for Ronin to clear his throat, and Nod sighs. “What, we need to go to Town Hall?”

 

“No, Tara’s at the Mansion, with Cara.”

 

MK beams. “Let’s go!”

 

“Wait, what about my stake-out—oh, you planned that, didn’t you?”

 

Ronin’s grin is a little creepy. “Why would you say that?” he asks innocently, taking his car keys from his pocket.

 

“Sneaky,” Nod accuses, and MK kisses his cheek.

 

“I’ll see you at Tara’s.”

 

“10 minutes then,” he promises, moving to his Crown Vic.

 

Ronin’s smile turns from creepy to proud. “You should do well.”

 

“Thank you,” she says.

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

She gets into her car, and Ronin gets into his, and they head off. She can’t stop smiling as she sees how the diamond catches the light coming in through the windshield. It sparkles and the ring isn’t so big that it dominates her hand—which is nice. She doesn’t want to be able to take out a small country if she swings her hand too hard. 

 

By the time she parks on the driveway of Tara and Ronin’s house, she’s bubbling with excitement. She doesn’t think she and Nod want a long engagement, but they have so much to talk about, so much to plan.

 

With a distant pang, she wishes Mom was here for the planning process, but she shoves that thought away. Today is a day for happiness and fun.

 

She gets up out of her car to see Nod pull in. Ronin’s already heading inside, but she waits until Nod’s out, holding out her hand to him. He takes it, tucking it into the crook of his arm as they follow Ronin in.

 

A bright purple ball of energy slams into MK’s legs, and Nod steadies her as she looks down. “Hi Cara,” she laughs, offering her arms to the exuberant six year old.

 

“Auntie MK!” Cara jumps into MK’s arms, winding her arms around her neck and hugging her tightly. MK hugs her back, grinning at Tara as she comes out of the kitchen.

 

“MK—back for good? Or merely on leave?”

 

“Please be back for good,” Cara begs.

 

MK kisses her cheek. “I’m back for good.”

 

“Yay!” Cara cheers, tightening her grip on MK’s neck.

 

“Cara, sweetie, let me breathe,” MK chokes, and Cara tightens her hold before letting go of her and sliding down.

 

“Uncle Nod! Did you hear Auntie MK’s staying?!”

 

“I did hear that, Cali,” Nod says, swooping her up as Cara shrieks. “We have something to tell you.”

 

Cara looks at MK. “What? What is it?”

 

“We’re getting married,” MK tells Cara, who shrieks again.

 

“Cara, inside voice,” Tara says, “but congratulations! Who did the asking?” she inquires, folding MK into a hug.

 

“There was some debate on that front,” Ronin says dryly.

 

Tara looks at him. “Please tell me you got video.”

 

“Oh yes.”

 

“Ohmygosh, Uncle Nod, the ring is super pretty!” Cara trills, examining his ring with all the focus a 6 year old can muster.

 

“I see you have a ring as well,” Tara murmurs. “May I?”

 

MK extends her hand to Tara, who looks at it approvingly. “It suits you. Congratulations.”

 

“Thanks,” she says, bracing herself as Cara runs over to her again, tugging her hand down so she can look at the ring from all angles.

 

“Auntie MK, why do you both have rings?”

 

“Because they didn’t plan who would propose so they both came armed with a ring,” Ronin says, steering them into the living room.

 

“Oh. Well, that’s cool!” Cara beams up at them, before zooming off.

 

As Nod and MK sit down across from Ronin and Tara, MK mutters, “Cali?”

 

“Her initials form CA, also the initials of California,” Nod shrugs. “I thought it was cute.”

 

MK kisses his cheek. “It’s adorable.”

 

“So, tell me everything,” Tara smiles, leaning against Ronin.

 

MK beams. “Well, it went like this...”

 

 _Finis_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So turning is officially done. I am planning side stories (Aisling and Finn's courtship, Tara and Ronin stories, some of Nod and MK's adventures while she's in college, the wedding, some of Cara's adventures...), but THIS narrative is done. 
> 
> It felt like a good place to stop--I knew I wanted the proposal, and yes, time skips are always chancy, but I wanted this to end on a happy note FIGHT ME.


End file.
